THE  SEEDS  OF 
ENCHANTMENT. 

BEING  SOME  ATTEMPT  TO  NARRATE 
THE  CURIOUS  DISCOVERIES  OF  DOC- 
TOR CYPRIAN  BEAMISH,  M.  D.,  GLAS- 
GOW; COMMANDANT  RENE  DE  GYS, 
ANNAMITE  ARMY,  AND  THE  HONOUR- 
ABLE RICHARD  ASSHETON  SMITH,  IN 
THE  GOLDEN  LAND  OF  INDO-CHINA 

BY 
GILBERT  FRANKAU 


GARDEN   CITY,   N.Y.,    AND   TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  BIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT   OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  I92O,  BY  STREET  AND  SMITH  CORPORATION 


THE  WRITER  TO  HIS  READERS 

being  by  way  of  a 
PREFACE 

It  is  so  much  the  custom  nowadays  for  an  author  who  has 
achieved  your  good  will  with  a  particular  type  of  tale  to 
continue  in  the  same  vein  until  either  your  patience  or  his 
own  fertility  be  exhausted,  that  I — having  been  fortunate 
enough  to  please  you  with  my  "Peter  Jameson" — feel  a  little 
diffident  in  following  up  that  romance  of  everyday  life  with 
what  I  can  only  describe  as  an  "adventure  story."  For  such 
— without  any  pretence — is  the  present  volume. 

But,  apart  from  this  perfectly  natural  diffidence,  I  make 
no  apologies  for  the  book.  The  idea  of  it  first  came  to  me 
many  years  ago,  on  a  stifling  night  in  Bangkok,  Siam,  as  I  lay 
sleepless  under  my  muslin  curtains,  listening  to  the  fierce  bass 
of  the  never-still  mosquitoes,  the  keen  tremolo — tic-call, 
tic-call,  tic-call — of  the  motionless  lizards  on  walls  and 
ceiling. 

We  had  spent  the  evening — my  Siamese  friends  and  I — at 
the  theatre,  a  great  building  of  green  wood,  where  European 
uniforms  blazed  in  the  front  rows  of  stalls,  and  behind — naked 
to  brown  waist — silent,  slitty-eyed  women  with  short  hair, 
blackened  teeth,  and  curled-back  fingertips,  sat  nonchalantly 
suckling  their  doll-like  babies. 

A  strange  playhouse,  and  a  strange  play !  At  this  lapse  of 
time  I  recollect  the  audience  better  than  the  performers.  But 
I  can  still  hear,  vaguely,  the  wailing,  cat-like  music  of  the 
chorus;  I  can  still  remember  the  outlines  of  a  polygamous 
plot  (we  married  our  hero  to  his  three  heroines  in  the  sixth 
act,  and  all  four  lived  happily  ever  after — at  least  so  the 
triumphant  kitten-calls  of  the  betel-chewing  bridesmaids 
led  me  to  believe);  and  I  can  still  see,  quite  clearly,  the 
drop-curtain  at  which  we  stared  through  five  interminable 
entr'actes — that  curtain  whereon  little  men  in  yellow  mail 


447203 


vi  PREFACE 

fought  with  bow  and  arrow,  hamstringing  axe,  and  stabbing- 
spear,  against  an  enormous  elephant — the  white  elephant 
of  Siam,  panoplied  to  victory  in  resounding  brass. 

All  night,  sleepless,  I  visioned  that  drop-curtain  and  the 
strange  histories  which  must  have  gone  to  the  inspiring  of  it; 
and  all  next  week,  as  the  foul  cargo-boat  on  which  I  had  taken 
passage  crawled  weary  way  round  Indo-China  to  Saigon,  I 
meditated  a  shapeless  tale;  and  at  Saigon's  self  the  tale  be- 
gan to  take  form.  For  it  was  there  that  I  first  met  him  whom 
I  have  called  "Rene  de  Gys";  and  heard  from  his  bearded 
lips  the  legend  of  the  "white  women  beyond  the  mountains." 

Many  million  gallons  of  water  have  gone  bubbling  and 
swirling  down  the  Mekong  River  since  that  man  and  I 
smoked  our  first  pipes  together  in  the  "house  of  Pu-yi  the 
Yunnanese,"  since  we  journeyed — idle  globe-trotter  with 
idle  explorer — to  the  ruins  of  Angkor,  and  lit  profaning 
camp  fires  at  the  feet  of  those  four  wasp-waisted  deities 
who  still  smile,  clear-cut  on  the  enduring  sandstone,  across 
the  titanic  courtyards  of  the  ancient  Khmers.  Many  ad- 
ventures have  befallen  both  us  and  the  world;  many  thoughts, 
many  experiences  have  combined  to  alter  my  original  con- 
ception, since  we  returned  to  Saigon,  bade  one  another  good- 
bye over  a  last  "Rainbow"  cocktail  at  the  Cafe  Pancrazi. 

Yet  the  tale,  in  its  main  outlines,  is  the  same  tale  which 
came  to  me,  a  decade  ago,  from  that  curious  drop-curtain  in  a 
Siamese  theatre;  which  elaborated  itself  to  the  deep  rumble 
of  "de  Gys' "  voice  among  the  cushioned  divans  of  Pu-yi's 
mansion  and  below  the  moon-fretted  buttresses  of  Angkor 
Wat.  In  it  you  will  still  find  those  little  men  in  yellow  mail, 
and  the  panoplied  elephant  they  fought  with,  and  the  white 
women  "of  de  Gys'"  imagining  (he  was,  I  conceive,  a  most 
phenomenal  liar),  and  not  a  little  of  that  treasure  of  Indo- 
Chinese  lore  and  geography  which — in  the  intervals  of 
picturesque  inexactitudes — he  poured  into  my  receptive 
ears.  And  who  knows  but  what,  if  only  you  dip  below  the 
surface  of  the  story,  you  may  find  even  more  than  these ! 

No!  I  cannot  apologize  for  "The  Seeds  of  Enchant- 
ment." Re-correcting  it  after  many  months— (I  owe  con- 


PREFACE  vii 

ventional  thanks  to  the  Editors  of  the  Popular  Magazine  of 
America  and  the  Sovereign  of  Great  Britain,  who  have 
published  portions  of  it  serially) — I  am  too  conscious  of  the 
struggle  and  the  thought  expended  in  its  fashioning  for  apol- 
ogies. I  am  even  a  little  proud  both  of  the  thought  and  of 
the  struggle. 

For  without  these  three,  Thought  and  Struggle  and  a 
little  clean  Pride  in  accomplishment,  is  neither  Truth  nor 
Life — as  even  our  "  Cyprian  Beamishes,"  to  whom  I  dedicate 
this  adventure,  eventually  discover. 

131,  Westbourne  Terrace, 

Hyde  Park,  London,  England 

The  first  day  of  January,  nineteen  twenty-one. 


CONTENTS 


THE  WRITER  TO  His  READERS— BY  WAY  OF  A  PREFACE 


PAGE 
V 


CHAPTER  THE 

FIRST 


SECOND 

THIRD 

FOURTH 

FIFTH 

SIXTH 

SEVENTH 
EIGHTH 
NINTH 
TENTH 


ELEVENTH 


TWELFTH 
THIRTEENTH 


IN  WHICH  THE  READER  MAKES  ACQUAINTANCE 
OF  THREE  WHITE  MEN  AND  A  MYSTERY  GIRL  3 

THREE  PURPLE  SEEDS 16 

WHITE  WOMEN  BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  .     .  24 

AT  THE  LITTLE  CAFE  ON  THE  CHOLON  ROAD  .  40 

A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW 56 

How  CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMED  CURIOUS 
DREAMS  AND  AWOKE  TO  STILL  MORE  CURI- 
OUS REALITY  70 

IDEOGRAPHED  RICE-PAPER 83 

THE  TONG  OF  THE  WHITE  TIGER     ....       89 
SECRET  DIPLOMACY 100 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER,  HAVING  SKIPPED  A 
PAINFUL  METAMORPHOSIS,  MANY  WEEKS 
AND  MANY  HUNDRED  MILES  OF  FEARSOME 
DISCOMFORT,  NOT  TO  MENTION  SEVERAL 
DEGREES  NORTH,  ARRIVES  AT  LUANG-PRA 
BANG  ON  THE  ME-NAM-KHONG  (OR  MtKONO) 
RIVER;  IN  THE  VERY  HEART  OF  SUVARNAB- 
HUMI Ill 

How  SI-TUK  THE  DWARF  UTTERED  ONE  INSULT 
Too  MANY;  AND  How,  BEING  PROPERLY 
SUBDUED,  HE  LED  HUMBLE  WAY  INTO 
STRANGE  PLACES 123 

THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA 134 

THEY  OF  THE  Bow     . 148 

is. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  THE 

FOURTEENTH 


FIFTEENTH 
SIXTEENTH 
SEVENTEENTH 

EIGHTEENTH 
NINETEENTH 
TWENTIETH 

TWENTY-FIRST 
TWENTY-SECOND 


CONTAINING,  AMONG  OTHER  INFORMATION 
OF  SUPREME  INTEREST  TO  THE  READER, 
A  SHORT  HISTORY  OF  THE  HARINESIAN 
PEOPLE 159 

OF  A  STRANGE  BOAT,  AND  A  STRANGE 
COUNTRY,  AND  A  STRANGE  OLD  SONG  .  175 

How  Bow  SKELVI  AND  SWORD  STRAIGHT 
CAME  TO  CITY  BU-RO 187 

IN  WHICH  BOTH  NAK  THE  ELEPHANT 
AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH  DISPLAY  SIGNS 
OF  AFFECTION 199 

OF  LOVE  AND  TRADING  IN  THE  YAMEN 
OF  SU-RAH 214 

THE  SWORD,  THE  AXE,  THE  ARROW — AND 
THE  INK-BRUSH 225 

CUNNING  OF  KUN-MER  AND  CUNNING 
OF  DE  GYS 238 

JUDGMENT  NIGHT  249 


IN    WHICH    THE    THREE    ADVENTURERS 
FIRST  SEE  QUIVERING  STONE 


TWENTY-THIRD       THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIRE 


263 
276 


TWENTY-FOURTH 

TwBNTY-FlFTH 


LOVER  OF  PIVOINE,  LOVER  OF  PAQUER- 
ETTE,  AND  LOVER  OF  SAFRANk  . 

How  Bow  SKELVI,  SWORD  STRAIGHT, 
AND  BROTHER  CYPRIAN  CAME  AT 
MOON-CHANGE  TO  ROCK  o'  DREAMS  . 


TWENTY-SIXTH  CHILDREN  OF  ILLUSION  .        .        .        , 

TWENTY-SEVENTH  THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  FLOWER 

TWENTY-EIGHTH  OLD  THINGS 

TWENTY-NINTH  THE  BATTLE  OF  WARM  WATER  FORD 


THIRTIETH 


THE   GRIM  JUSTICE  OF  NAK  THE  ELE- 
PHANT . 


THE  WRITER  TO  His  READERS — BEING  BY  WAY  OF  AN  EPI- 
LOGUE   


294 
302 
310 
321 
337 

353 
361 


THE  SEEDS 

OF 
ENCHANTMENT 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 


CHAPTER  THE  FIRST 

In  which  the  reader  makes  acquaintance  of  three  white  men  and  a 
mystery  girl 

INTERNATIONAL  Socialism     ..."     began  Doctor 
Cyprian  Beamish. 
His  companion  dipped  spoon  to  a  plateful  of  that 
Mulligatawny  soup  which  invariably  commences  Sunday's 
tiffin  throughout  the  Federated  Malay  States,  and  drawled 
in  the  unmistakeable  accents  of  Oxford  University: 

"Too  hot  for  Socialism,  old  man.     Give  it  a  rest." 

It  was  hot,  stiflingly  so.  Outside,  Singapore  City  steamed 
under  an  equatorial  rain-drizzle:  moisture — clammy,  blood- 
thinning  moisture — permeated  the  gloomy  stucco-pillared 
tiffin  room  of  the  Hotel  Europe.  Even  See-Sim,  the  Canto- 
nese "boy"  whom  the  Honourable  Dicky  had  managed  to 
pick  up  at  Penang,  felt  uncomfortably  warm  as  he  stood, 
yellow-faced  and  impassive,  behind  his  master's  chair. 

"Ayer  baton,"  commanded  Dicky.  The  boy  grinned,  and 
slipped  away — his  embroidered  felt  shoes  making  no  noise 
on  the  gray  stone  floor. 

"What's  ayer  baton?"  asked  Beamish. 

"Ice.  Literally — water,  stone.  Solid  water.  Rather  a 
neat  way  of  putting  it,"  drawled  Dicky. 

"You've  got  an  extraordinary  knack  of  acquiring  lan- 
guages, Long'un." 

"Think  so?" 

"Globe-trotters,"  judged  the  men  at  the  other  tables — men 
dressed  for  the  most  part  in  high  silver-buttoned  tunics  of 


4  THE  SEEDS  OF;  ENCHANTMENT 

white  lir«en;  anrj  :cjc)]i)t,iiitied  t'heir  endless  discussions  about 
tin  prices  arid  rubber  prices  land  the  Siamese  rice-crop. 

The  two  "globe-trotters"  subsided  into  silence  over  their 
Mulligatawny.  See-Sim,  returning  with  the  ice,  slipped  deft 
lumps  into  their  glasses;  poured  out  the  whisky  stengahs;* 
fizzed  aerated  water  brim-high;  and  resumed  his  impassive 
pose,  hands  tucked  away  in  the  sleeves  of  his  blue  silk 
jacket. 

"Of  these  Fan-qui-lo  (foreign  devils),"  thought  See-Sim, 
"the  fair-haired  one  is  undoubtedly  great  in  riches,  wisdom, 
and  strength.  That  other  seems  to  me  a  person  of  lesser 
consideration . ' ' 

So  China;  but  to  American  minds  and  eyes  the  pair  re- 
quire a  more  detailed,  more  sympathetic  picture. 


The  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith,  only  son  of  that 
Lord  Furlmere  who  married  Miss  Sylvia  Gates  of  Danville, 
Virginia,  in  1888,  was  almost  lankily  tall,  long-handed,  fair 
to  freckling  point.  His  tropical  clothes,  though  tailored 
in  Bombay  of  Foochow  silk,  yet  managed  to  hint  of  Bond 
Street,  London.  He  wore  his  hair,  yellow  hair  with  a  touch 
of  gold  in  it,  close-cropped.  The  moustache  above  the  red 
lips  and  fine  teeth  curled  back  flat  below  clean-cut  nostrils. 
Dark  lashes  veiled  languid  eyes  of  intense  blue.  At  twenty- 
four  Dicky  had  only  just  escaped  being  "pretty";  now,  in  his 
thirtieth  year,  he  looked  merely  aristocratic.  And  this 
aristocratic  appearance  of  Dicky's  was  all  the  more  curious, 
because  the  Purlmere  peerage  did  not  date  back  to  the 
Norman  Conquest,  or  even  to  the  Restoration :  the  Honour- 
able Richard's  great-grandfather  having  been  a  Lancashire 
cotton  weaver  who  succeeded,  by  hard  work  and  hard  saving, 
in  founding  one  of  those  business  dynasties  which  emerged 
from  the  Victorian  prosperity  of  the  British  Empire. 

In  the  language  of  Beamish,  therefore,  the  heir  of  Castle 
Furlmere  belonged  to  the  "capitalist"  class,  stood  for  a  scion 


*A  small  glass  of  whisky. 


A  MYSTERY  GIRL  5 

of  "individualism,"  of  "competitive  industry,"  and  "wage 
slavery"  in  their  most  commercial,  least  humanized  forms. 
For  Doctor  Cyprian  Beamish  was  among  other  things 
an  undistinguished  member  of  Fabian  Socialist  Society! 

Thirty-six  years  old,  ascetic-looking,  clean-shaven,  grayish- 
haired,  Beamish  might  well  appear  of  "  lesser  consideration  " 
to  the  wise,  tired  eyes  of  China — as  represented  by  the 
motionless  See-Sim.  He  wore  his  silk  clothes  carelessly; 
seemed  lacking  in  repose;  inclined,  thought  the  Cantonese,  to 
familiarity.  Yet  Beamish,  apart  from  his  opinions,  might 
have  been  a  very  pleasant  fellow. 

The  Beamishes  had  never  attained  commercial  prosperity. 
As  a  family,  they  counted  among  their  remote  ancestors  an 
eighteenth-century  beadle  and  a  Bow  Street  runner,  the 
modern  representatives  drifting  into  minor  positions  on 
Parish  Councils,  the  Inland  Revenue,  and  various  Govern- 
ment offices.  Cyprian,  youngest  of  a  large  brood,  had  taken 
a  Scotch  degree  in  medicine,  and  been  appointed  Officer  of 
Health  to  a  South  Coast  holiday  resort  some  two  years  before 
the  1914  outbreak  of  war  in  Europe. 

See-Sim  removed  empty  soup-plates,  brought  sweet  curry 
of  Singapore  custom.  The  damp  heat,  which  grew  more 
intense  every  moment,  suppressed  all  conversation  between 
the  two  Europeans. 

A  curious  intimacy,  this,  begun  in  a  dressing-station  near 
Neuve  Chapelle,  continued  intermittently  through  four 
years  of  battle,  and  culminating  in  a  leisurely  post-war 
journey  through  the  East. 

The  original  suggestion  of  the  trip  had  been  Dicky's. 
Lord  Furlmere,  despite  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  still 
drove  the  complicated  organization  founded  by  his  plebeian 
grandfather;  and  his  son,  before  resuming  a  business  career 
interrupted  by  military  service,  was  anxious  to  make  personal 
acquaintance  of  the  markets  from  which  the  bulk  of  his 
riches  would  derive. 

Also,  after  forty-two  months  of  almost  continuous  fighting 


6  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

on  the  Western  front,  during  which  he  had  risen  from  second 
lieutenant  to  command  of  an  infantry  battalion — a  progress 
punctuated  by  two  bullet-wounds  and  a  brace  of  fairly  earned 
decorations — Dicky  felt  himself  in  need  of  a  holiday.  Beam- 
ish, newly  demobilized  from  the  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps, 
fell  in  with  the  suggestion  as  "he  wanted  to  study  the  social 
progress  of  the  East  at  first  hand." 

So  far — they  had  been  away  from  home  six  months — the 
journey  had  been  pleasant  and  uneventful  except  for  an 
incident  at  Amritsar,  which  had  brought  the  old  fighting 
fire  back  to  Dicky's  languid  eyes,  and  slightly  shaken  his 
friend's  belief  in  the  universal  brotherhood  of  man. 

And  here — since  the  incidents  which  follow  were  not  de- 
void of  influence  on  the  opinions  of  both — it  seems  necessary 
to  explain  the  intellectual  viewpoints  of  our  two  adventurers. 

The  Honourable  Richard  Smith,  then,  as  his  name  implies, 
was  a  very  average  Englishman  who  believed  in  the  doctrine 
of  individual  liberty  at  home  and  the  exercise  of  benevolent 
force  abroad.  This  doctrine  of  individual  liberty — prob- 
ably owing  to  the  fact  that  his  father  had  been  one  of  the 
first  to  introduce  profit-sharing  into  his  factories — Dicky 
modified  by  a  leaning  towards  co-partnership  and  amalga- 
mation in  industry:  the  exercise  of  benevolent  force  over  less- 
civilized  races — possibly  because  of  his  mixed  parentage — 
he  deemed  the  especial  prerogative  of  the  English-speaking 
peoples. 

Not  so  Beamish!  In  Beamish's  eyes — dreamy,  visionary 
eyes,  small-pupiled,  dull-irised — his  friend's  domestic  ideas 
were  "reactionary,"  his  international  standpoint  "mili- 
taristic." Beamish  saw,  emerging  from  the  welter  of  Arma- 
geddon, a  new  world,  warless,  full  of  strangely  changed 
peoples,  old  enmities  put  aside,  old  ambitions  abandoned, 
lying  down  lamb-like  with  the  lion  and  the  eagle.  The 
millennium,  according  to  Beamish,  had  almost  arrived;  the 
"battle-flags  were  furled,"  and  the  "Parliament  of  Man" 
duly  and  expensively  in  session — at  Geneva.  Beamish,  there- 
fore— mind  free  from  the  paltry  cares  of  "nationalism" — 
could  afford  exclusive  devotion  to  "The  Cause". 


A  MYSTERY  GIRL  7 

And  it  was  not  Beamish's  fault,  but  that  of  his  manifold 
and  contradictory  advisers,  if  their  pupil  found  it  rather 
difficult  to  explain  the  exact  objects  of  the  cause  to  which 
he  had  vowed  allegiance. 

The  doctor's  brain — never  a  very  efficient  one — had  so 
befuddled  itself  with  studying  the  abstract  problems  of 
Internationalism,  Communism,  Collectivism,  Syndicalism, 
Karl  Marxism,  Guild-,  State-,  Christian-  and  other  Socialism, 
had  perused  so  many  pronunciamentos — including  the 
mathematical  gymnastics  of  Sir  Leo  Chiozza  Money  and 
Professor  John  Atkinson  Hobson,  M.A.,  the  sentimental  in- 
accuracies of  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Sidney  Webb,  the  lucubrations  of 
Herrn  Bernhard  Shaw,  and  the  bucolic  phenomena  of 
.Prince  Kropotkin — as  to  be  almost  incapable  of  individual 
judgment.  Till,  eventually,  the  doctor's  bemused  soul  had 
taken  refuge  in  generalities. 

"International  Socialism,"  Beamish  used  to  say,  "is  not  so 
much  a  system  as  a  principle.  The  Capitalist  must  go. 
Capitalism  is  the  prime  source  of  all  evils,  war  included,  in 
the  world.  Abolish  it,  organize  production  for  the  benefit 
of  everybody,  eliminate  the  sordid  motive  of  private  gain, 
and  we  shall  return  to  the  Merrie  England  of  the  Middle 
Ages." 

Exact  economic  details  of  this  transformation  escaped  the 
Fabian's  ken;  nor,  in  gloomier  moments,  was  he  quite  certain 
about  the  merriness  of  England  in  those  joyous  early  days. 
Being  a  medical  man,  he  could  not  help  looking  back  on  the 
Middle  Ages  as  a  rather  insanitary,  untherapeutic  period. 
In  the  Merrie  England  of  1931  there  would  have  to  be 
plumbers;  and  even  Beamish  found  the  merry  plumber  a 
difficult  conception.  Still — Socialism  could  work  miracles. 

Relying  on  these  miracles,  and  on  the  protection  afforded 
to  a  warless  world  by  the  super-salaried  idealists  of  the  League 
of  Nations,  the  soul  of  Cyprian  Beamish  had  created  for  it- 
self two  dream-countries. 

In  the  first  dream-country,  the  "State" — a  nebulous  en- 
tity, compound  of  Christian  love  and  Jewish  sagacity — con- 
trolled all  industry.  Resultantly,  said  Beamish,  labour  was 


8  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

reduced  to  its  correct  minimum  of  four  hours  per  diem — a 
working  week  containing  four  days.  For  the  remainder  of 
its  time  the  "community"  ("jolly  word",  quoth  our  doctor) 
devoted  itself  to  "the  Arts",  to  "social  intercourse"  (compul- 
sory), to  "joyous  physical  self -expression"  (including  univer- 
sal Morris-dancing),  to  the  cultivation  of  crocuses  in  art- 
green  pots,  and  the  building — with  its  own  hands — of 
"jolly  little  houses"  wherein  a  limited  number  of  "jolly" 
children  were  born,  fed,  clothed,  educated,  and  of  course 
doctored,  free  of  charge,  by  the  said  beneficent  State. 

Beamish  had  not  progressed  quite  as  far  as  the  doctrine  of 
free  love — being,  among  other  things,  a  strict  vegetarian, 
that  is  to  say  he  ate  meat  only  at  other  people's  expense  or 
when  living,  as  now,  on  the  American  plan.  Still,  in  this 
first  dream-country,  the  endowment  of  parenthood  was 
already  an  accomplished  fact — parents,  at  the  age  of  forty, 
becoming  entitled  (rent  and  taxes  free)  to  one  jolly  little 
house  and  two  jolly  little  pensions  which  secured  for  them 
most  of  the  comforts — hot  baths  and  evening  dress  excluded 
— which  a  less  enlightened  age  had  reserved  for  the  "comfort- 
able classes." 

Occasionally,  when  seriously  tackled  by  Dicky  about  the 
difficulties  of  running  such  a  State,  Beamish  would  admit 
that  there  might  be  a  certain  danger  from  "bureaucracy". 

"Still,  it's  coming,  Long  *un,"  he  would  finish.  "If  we 
can  only  eliminate  parasitic  capitalists  and  reactionaries  like 
yourself,  the  things  a  cert."  Whereat  the  Honourable  Dicky 
— "Long'un"  to  his  intimates — would  subside  into  amused 
silence. 

Which  amused  silence,  and  a  latent  streak  of  furtiveness  in 
Beamish's  nature,  had  hitherto  prevented  the  Socialist  from 
speaking  of  his  second  dream-country,  that  ultimate  Utopia 
of  the  human  race  where  was  neither  work  nor  war  nor 
wages,  neither  eating  of  meat  nor  bibbing  of  wine  (our  doctor, 
his  own  mild  whiskies-and-soda  apart,  strenuously  supported 
Prohibition)  but  only  Man  and  Woman,  refined  to  the 
Absolute  Beauty,  existing  flower-like  among  flowery  meads. 


A  MYSTERY  GIRL  9 

They  had  finished  their  curry,  and  were  cloying  palates 
with  Goola  Malacca  pudding  before  Cyprian  ventured  his 
next  remark. 

"The  eating  of  meat,  by  stimulating  the  animal  passions," 
began  Beamish  .  .  .  but  the  sentence  died,  unfinished, 
at  his  lips. 

And  in  that  moment  not  alone  Beamish  but  every  single 
man  throughout  the  big  windowless  tiffin-room,  ceased  talk- 
ing abruptly,  as  though  stricken  with  aphasia.  They  sat, 
forty  or  fifty  Europeans,  motionless  and  staring,  manners  for- 
gotten. Only  the  imperturbable  Orientals  still  moved,  silent 
on  embroidered  slippers,  among  the  hushed  tables.  For 
suddenly,  unexpectedly,  each  man  saw  the  inmost  vision  of 
his  heart,  the  dream-girl  of  swamp  and  jungle-cabin,  visibly 
materialized  before  his  astounded  eyes. 

She  came  among  them,  moving  quietly,  rhythmically: 
a  tall,  stately  presence,  golden-haired,  rose-complexioned  as 
the  women  of  the  West,  violet-eyed,  white-handed,  low- 
breasted,  long  of  limb :  a  dream — and  a  temptation. 

The  magical  moment  passed;  men  breathed  again,  words 
returned  to  their  lips.  After  all,  it  was  only  a  woman,  an 
ordinary  European  woman:  "a  devilish  good-looking  one, 
though."  They  left  it  at  that,  and  resumed  interrupted 
conversations;  all  of  them  except  the  two  globe-trotters; 
and  they  could  only  watch,  fascinated. 

The  girl,  she  could  hardly  be  more  than  nineteen,  seemed 
wholly  unconscious  of  the  impression  she  created.  She 
walked  very  slowly  up  the  room,  eyes  inspecting  each  table, 
hands  quiet  at  her  sides.  She  was  dressed  with  extreme 
simplicity:  lace  blouse  open  at  throat,  short  skirt  of  Chefoo 
silk  matching  the  beige  of  silk  stockings,  suede  shoes  on 
slender  feet.  Her  hair — she  wore  no  hat — seemed  to  Dicky's 
eyes  like  a  great  casque  of  molten  gold  under  which  the  face 
showed  flawless  and  luring. 

The  girl  had  almost  reached  their  table  before  Dicky 
realized  that  she  was  not  alone.  Behind  her  came  a  man, 
a  red-haired,  red-bearded  giant  of  a  man,  with  fierce  red- 
brown  eyes,  dressed  un-Englishly  in  wide  alpaca  trousers, 


10  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

scarlet  cummerbund  atop;  light  green  tropical  shooting- 
jacket,  red-lined,  hanging  loosely  on  his  vast  shoulders. 
One  enormous  hand  swung  a  pith  helmet;  the  other  carried, 
with  exaggerated  care,  a  basket  of  mangosteens. 

The  pair  made  their  way  to  a  near-by  table  at  which — 
as  if  abruptly  materialized — appeared  a  little  brown  Oriental, 
clad  in  black  silk  coatee,  narrow  black  sarong  about  his  loins, 
who  relieved  his  master  submissively  of  his  burdens  and  drew 
back  a  chair  for  the  girl  to  sit  down. 

"Good  Lord,"  thought  Dicky,  "it's  de  Guys!" 

Recognition  was  mutual.  The  giant,  chair-back  gripped 
in  one  leg-of-mutton  fist,  looked  up;  dropped  chair  with  a 
clatter;  and  strode  across  the  floor  bellowing  in  a  voice  loud 
as  the  scream  of  a  bull-elephant: 

"By  the  seven  sales  Boches  I  slew  at  Douamont,  c'est  mon 
ami  le  Colonel  Smith!9' 

Rene  de  Gys  of  the  French  Annamite  Army,  Chevalier  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour,  Medaille  Militaire,  Croix  de  Guerre 
with  Palms,  stood  six-foot-two  in  his  rope-soled  canvas 
shoes;  yet  the  Long'un,  as  he  rose,  insularly  abashed  by  this 
boisterous  greeting,  overtopped  him  by  a  good  three  inches. 
They  stood  there,  hands  gripped,  cynosure  of  every  man  in 
the  tiffin-room:  and  Melie  la  blonde's  violet  eyes  kindled  to 
watch  their  meeting. 

"  To-morrow  night  will  be  Moon-change,"  mused  Melie 
la  blonde.  "To-morrow  night!"  For  the  soul  of  Melie, 
as  the  body  of  Melie,  was  neither  of  East  nor  of  West, 
but  of  her  own  folk,  of  the  Flower  Folk  who  live  beyond 
Quivering  Stone  .... 

"Ah!  But  it  is  good  to  hold  you  by  the  hand  again,  my 
long  friend. "  Rene  spoke  the  voluble  French  of  his  native 
South,  not  the  tropic-tired  drawl  of  the  Colonial.  "How 
long  since  we  last  met?  A  year,  is  it  not?  No,  two  years. 
But  you  have  not  forgotten  the  old  popotte  behind  Mount 
Kemmel,  and  the  Rainbow  cocktails  we  drank  together. 
My  friend,  there  were  worse  days.  I  told  you  then  that  we 
should  meet  again,  that  we  should  regret.  But  now,  meeting 
you,  I  regret  nothing." 


A  MYSTERY  GIRL  11 

"You  were  always  the  enthusiast,  mon  cher,"  began  Dicky; 
and  his  French  was  the  Parisian  of  the  boulevards.  "As  for 
me,  I  am  very  glad  to  be  out  of  it — and  alive.  What  brings 
you  to  Singapore?" 

"Pleasure,"  said  the  giant,  laconically.  "Won't  you 
present  me  to  your  friend?" 

Beamish  got  up;  stammered  clumsy  acknowledgment  to 
the  introduction. 

"And  now  you  must  know  Madame."  Rene,  linking  an 
arm  through  Dicky's,  led — Beamish  following — to  his  own 
table.  "Ma  chere,  allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  very  good 
comrade  the  Colonel  Smith,  and  the  Doctor  Beamish." 

Dicky,  bending  to  take  the  girl's  proffered  hand,  was 
conscious  only  of  thrill — a  strange,  warm  thrill  that  sent 
blood  throbbing  to  his  temples.  Hitherto,  women  had 
played  but  a  small  part  in  Dicky's  life;  had  been,  at  best, 
only  the  pals  of  an  idle  week;  but  now,  for  the  first  time, 
looking  down  on  that  mass  of  hair  blonde  as  his  own,  feeling 
the  cling  of  those  soft  white  fingers,  he  knew  the  power  which 
is  woman's,  and  knowing  it,  knew  passion.  There  could  be  no 
palship  between  man  and  a  creature  such  as  this :  only.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  shame  for  his  thought  took  Dicky  by  the  throat. 
He  dropped  the  girl's  hand.  She  began  to  speak  in  a  quaint, 
stilted  French  which  he  found  impossible  to  place. 


Back  at  their  own  table,  the  two  Englishmen  ordered  coffee 
and  Manilas;  dismissed  See-Sim;  lit  up  in  silence.  Both 
felt  the  need  for  speech,  yet  neither  uttered  a  word.  The 
proximity  of  de  Gys  and  Melie  rendered  the  one  subject  they 
wished  to  discuss  impossible.  They  could  only  satisfy 
curiosity  with  occasional  glances  at  the  strange  couple,  at  the 
strange,  submissive  man  who  served  them.  Beamish  noticed 
that  the  girl  only  flirted  with  her  food — a  spoonful  of  soup, 
the  tiniest  helping  of  curry. 

Slowly  the  tiffin-room  emptied.  One  by  one,  boys  cleared 
and  re-laid  the  untidy  tables,  vanished  noiselessly  towards 
the  kitchens. 


12  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Come  and  share  our  mangosteens,"  called  de  Gys.  He 
gave  some  incomprehensible  order  to  the  servant,  who  ar- 
ranged chairs  so  that  Dicky,  facing  his  host,  sat  next  to  the 
girl  and  Beamish  opposite  to  her;  plunged  large  hands  into 
the  basket,  and  drew  out  four  of  the  fruits. 

" Mangoustan  /"  he  announced.  "Apple  of  the  furthest 
East,  of  the  Golden  Land,  of  that  Chryse  which  Ptolemy 
dreamed  and  Marco  Polo  the  Venetian  made  real."  Then 
he  sliced  the  hard,  dark-red  rinds;  extracted  white  savorous 
cores  and  laid  them  before  his  guests. 

Asked  Beamish,  sedulous  as  always  for  information: 
"Where  is  Chryse?" 

"You  may  well  ask,"  answered  de  Gys.  "Some  say  that 
Chryse  is  your  English  Burmah;  some  believe  it  this  very 
Malaya,  that  hides  Solomon's  treasure  among  its  virgin 
forests;  but  to  me,  Chryse,  the  land  of  Gold,  is  our  Indo- 
China;  Survarnabhumi  of  the  ancients;  last  unexplored  ter- 
ritory of  this  dull  old  earth." 

"But  earth  is  not  dull,"  protested  Melie.  "Even  I,  who 
know  as  yet  so  little  of  it,  have  realized  .  .  ."  and  she 
began  to  speak  in  that  strange  French  which  so  puzzled 
Dicky. 

Listening  to  her,  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  heard  some 
far-away  voice  out  of  the  olden  time,  sprightly  and  specula- 
tive. So  might  Marie  Antoinette  have  gossiped,  playing 
aristocratic  milk-maid  in  the  Laiterie  of  Versailles:  so,  too, 
might  Marie  Antoinette  have  fascinated.  For  again  the  spell 
of  this  woman  was  on  Dicky :  behind  all  her  talk  sex  lurked, 
gallant  and  glamorous.  .  .  .  But  now  de  Gys  took  up 
the  challenge,  a  torrent  of  words  pouring  from  his  red  lips : 

"Dull!  Yes,  dull.  What  would  you?  The  sword  is 
broken,  we  live  in  the  age  of  the  pen.  At  least  so  they  tell  us, 
your  politicians  masquerading  as  priests,  your  lawyers  in 
Pope's  clothing.  Pah!" — he  struck  the  table  with  his 
clenched  fist  till  the  plates  rattled — "the  world  plays  at 
Sunday  School;  and  for  such  as  you  and  me,  old  friend,  there 
is  no  more  to  do.  We  are  mere 'soldiers'.  Useless.  On  the 
scrap  heap." 


A  MYSTERY  GIRL  13 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  answered  Dicky.  "I'm  only  a  ci- 
vilian, a  merchant  of  cotton." 

The  red  man  laughed.  "Tell  that  to  the  lawyers  and 
politicians  at  home;  but  tell  it  not  to  me,  de  Gys,  who  re- 
member you,  haggard  in  your  torn  khaki,  cursing  as  only 
you  English  can  curse,  a  smoking  rifle  in  your  hand." 

The  Long'un  blushed;  then  he  drawled  with  a  malicious 
smile:  "My  friend  the  doctor  is  an  International  Socialist. 
I  beg  of  you  to  respect  his  opinions." 

But  at  that  de  Gys  exploded. 

"Socialist!  Internationalist!  Thunder  of  God,  must  I 
eat  mangosteens  with  a  traitor."  He  eyed  Beamish,  who 
had  assumed  the  superior  air  of  his  breed,  as  a  gardener  eyes 
the  slug  in  a  carrot  bed. 

"  Vive  la  politesse"  murmured  Dicky. 

De  Gys  apologized;  prepared  more  mangosteens. 

"La  Socialisme,"  began  Beamish.  Now  there  was  no 
holding  the  Frenchman. 

"Pah!"  he  thundered.  "Le  Socialisme  !  May  the  devil 
fly  away  with  it.  Le  Socialisme !  War  is  dead.  Vive  la 
paix  !  Let  us  wave  the  red  flag  and  chant  the  Internationale. 
Pah!"  His  eyes  glinted.  "Boche  talk.  You  believe  their 
lies — you,  a  man  of  Science!  And  if  I,  Rene  de  Gys,  tell 
you  that  war  is  not  dead,  that  war  will  never  die,  that  war 
is  the  spirit  of  Man — what  will  you  say  then?" 

"Prussien!"  chaffed  Dicky. 

De  Gys  fell  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  began  to  speak 
very  deliberately  in  cold-blooded,  reasoned  sentences. 

"No.  I  am  no  Prussian.  War  for  war's  sake  I  hate. 
But  more  than  war  I  hate  weakness  and  indiscipline  and 
smug  hypocrisy  and  lies.  Out  of  these,  and  not  out  of 
strength,  war  is  bred.  That  old  Roman  was  no  fool  when 
he  said  'If  thou  desirest  peace,  see  that  thou  art  prepared 
for  war'." 

"He  was  a  barbarian,  of  a  barbarous  age,"  put  in  Beamish. 

"And  we,  I  suppose,  are  civilized,"  laughed  the  Frenchman; 
"  therefore,  we  must  offer  the  other  cheek  to  the  smiter,  even 
if  he  be  a  Hun  or  a  yellow  man," 


14  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Nobody's  trying  to  smite  you,  old  firebrand,"  soothed 
Dicky.  But  de  Gys  rumbled  in  his  beard,  "Weakness  is 
danger.  The  world  forgets  its  lesson";  and  he  went  on  to 
tell  them  of  old  fights  in  the  swamp  and  the  jungle,  fights 
of  white  men  against  yellow,  of  brown  men  against  white. 

Till  lastly  he  spoke  of  Indo-Chinese  exploration,  of  de 
Lagree  and  Gamier,  of  their  journey  up  the  Mekong  into 
Yunnan;  of  how  de  Lagree  died  at  Tong-chuan,  and  Gamier 
— a  few  years  later — in  the  rice-fields  of  Son-tay. 

"Heroes,  my  friends,"  boomed  the  deep  voice.  "Patriots. 
Barbarians" — he  glanced  furiously  at  Beamish — "who  flung 
away  their  lives  for  a  scrap  of  knowledge  on  a  map  no  one 
looks  at,  for  a  little  strip  of  painted  cloth  on  which  your 
internationalists  would  fain  wipe  their  dirty  noses.  .  .  . 
Barbarians!"  He  paused,  ineffably  contemptuous.  "Pah! 
Such  talk  makes  the  blood  boil.  Were  they  all  *  barbarians', 
all  those  white  men  whose  corpses  litter  the  East?" 

"They  served  their  day,"  put  in  Beamish.  "Now,  East 
and  West  must  work  together  for  the  regeneration,  of  the 
world." 

"A  fine  sermon!"  De  Gys  laughed.  "And  one  that 
sounds  well  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  West.  But  do  not 
preach  it  here,  my  friend:  nor  to  me,  Rene  de  Gys.  Be- 
cause I,  monsieur,  am  also  a  barbarian.  .  .  ." 

"And  you?"  He  turned  on  Dicky.  "Are  you,  too,  of  this 
milk-and-coffee  creed?  Would  you  embrace  the  Hun  and 
the  yellow  man — they  are  both  one,  believe  me  who  know 
East  and  West — take  him  into  your  country,  let  him  steal 
the  white  loaves  from  your  workers'  stomachs,  the  white 
women  from  your  workers'  beds.  I  think  not,  my  friend. 
You  are  of  the  old  faith.  .  .  . 

"The  old  faith!"— suddenly  the  Frenchman  burst  into 
gasconade.  "The  faith  in  the  white  above  the  black  and  the 
yellow!  Such  is  my  creed.  As  Gamier  was,  as  Doudart  de 
Lagree,  so  am  I.  Fools,  soldiers,  barbarians — call  them  what 
you  will — at  least  they  knew  how  to  die  for  their  beliefs,  for 
the  little  scrap  of  knowledge,  for  the  little  strip  of  painted 
cloth.  All  up  and  down  the  land  of  gold  they  lie,  men  of 


A  MYSTERY  GIRL  15 

your  stamp  and  mine,  cher  ami.     Yet  the  land  of  gold  still 
„  keeps  one  secret  from  us.     Eastward  of  the  Mekong  that 
secret  hides;  westwards  of  the  Red  River.     .     .     ." 

Interrupted  a  voice,  a  voice  the  three  hardly  recognized, 
the  voice  of  Melie,  hoarse  and  crazy  with  terror:  "Non! 
Non  !  Non  !  Je  vous  defends"  screamed  Melie.  Then  the 
voice  snapped  in  her  throat;  and  her  head  crashed  forward, 
lay  motionless  on  the  table.  Red  rinds  of  the  mangosteens 
showed  like  enormous  clots  of  blood  among  the  loosened  gold 
of  her  hair. 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

Three  purple  seeds 

DE  GYS  sprang  to  his  feet  with  one  quick  movement 
that  sent  the  flimsy  chair  clattering  behind  him.  His 
right  arm  caught  up  the  fainting  woman  as  a  har- 
vester catches  up  the  wheat-sheaf,  lifted  her  breast-high;  his 
left  gathered  her  ankles. 

"You,  doctor,  come!"  he  called  over  his  shoulder,  and 
strode  off,  threading  quick  way  between  the  empty  tables, 
up  the  three  steps  from  the  tiffin-room  to  the  hall,  out  of 
sight.  Beamish  and  Dicky,  pursuing,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  as  he  rounded  the  corner  of  the  stairs;  heard  the  scrape  of 
his  shoes  on  the  matting;  broke  into  a  run. 

Phu-nan,  the  little  brown  servant,  stood  for  a  moment 
irresolute.  Then,  taking  the  half-empty  basket  and  de 
Gys'  sun-hat,  he,  too,  followed. 

By  the  time  Phu-nan  reached  his  master's  apartments 
Melie  was  lying  flat  on  the  great  bare  bedstead.  Over  her, 
carelessly  drawn  mosquito-curtains  brushing  his  shoulders, 
bent  the  doctor.  De  Gys,  fists  clenched,  stood  motionless 
in  the  centre  of  the  room.  A  pile  of  papers  and  a  bamboo 
table  lay,  overturned,  between  the  mats  on  the  red  brick 
floor.  Beyond,  through  the  "ehik"  curtains,  Phu-nan  saw 
the  third  white  man — a  tall  silhouette  against  the  balcony 
window. 

Silently  the  "boy"  set  the  table  on  its  legs  and  commenced 
to  re-arrange  the  papers. 

"I  should  like  the  fan  started.  Full  speed,  please," 
called  Beamish's  voice,  coldly  professional.  De  Gys  stepped 
to  the  switch  by  the  door,  clicked  it  on.  The  wooden  ceiling- 
fan  began  to  revolve,  gathered  speed.  A  breath  of  cooling 

16 


THREE  PURPLE  SEEDS  17 

air  circulated  down  through  the  heat  of  the  room,  quivering 
the  papers  on  the  table,  the  muslin  curtains  round  the  bed. 

"You!"  ordered  de  Gys  to  his  servant,  "wait  outside  the 
door." 

Phu-nan  salaamed;  withdrew.  Beamish  finished  his 
examination,  closed  the  curtains,  and  turned  to  de  Gys. 

"Elle  est  morte"  he  whispered. 

"Dead!"  For  a  moment  the  Frenchman's  eyes  gazed 
blank  incredulity.  Then  rage  blazed  in  their  red-brown 
depths.  "Liar!"  the  voice,  keyed  to  frenzy,  seemed  torn 
from  the  huge  frame.  "Liar!  she  cannot  be  dead.  It  is 
impossible." 

"Elle  est  morte,"  repeated  Beamish,  and  felt  himself  tossed 
aside  so  that  he  staggered  against  a  long  rattan  chair,  only 
just  recovered  balance  in  time  to  see  de  Gys'  hands,  grown 
suddenly  gentle  as  a  girl's,  pulling  apart  the  flimsy  muslin 
round  the  bed. 

"Yes,  she  is  dead.  Poor,  poor  little  woman,"  thought  de 
Gys.  All  the  quick  rage  in  him  was  extinct.  He  knew  only 
infinite  pity,  infinite  sorrow,  and  deep  down  in  his  wanderer's 
heart,  pain.  For  though  he  had  known  many  women,  this 
one  he  had  loved. 

She  lay  there  so  quietly;  alabaster- white  in  death.  Death 
had  smoothed  all  terror  from  her  face:  her  face  showed  like 
a  waxen  magnolia-bloom  against  the  spread  gold  of  her  hair. 
Death  had  smoothed  all  movement  from  her  long  limbs,  from 
her  impulsive  hands:  her  hands  rested  on  her  bosom  like  two 
fallen  petals  of  some  great  white  flower. 

"But  this  is  not  Melie,"  he  thought,  "this  is  only  the  husk 
of  Melie,  the  beautiful  husk  of  a  soul  I  hardly  knew." 

Very  reverently  he  bent  and  kissed  the  gold  hair,  the  white 
forehead,  the  two  hands  lying  petal-like  on  the  rounded 
breasts.  Very  quietly  he  drew  the  mosquito-curtains; 
turned  to  Beamish. 

"Your  pardon,  doctor." 

Beamish  took  the  outstretched  hand;  murmured  awk- 
wardly: "C'est  triste,  Sympathie"  And  the  Frenchman 
understood. '  Dicky,  too,  his  long  friend,  the  Colonel  Smith 


18  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

of  old  days,  was  beside  him;  he  could  feel  Dicky's  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "Courage,  mon  vieux,  we  have  seen  death  before, 
you  and  I." 

The  Frenchman  came  to  himself.  "Yes,"  he  said — a  hint 
of  the  old  gasconade  in  his  tone — "we  are  old  friends,  you  and 
I  and  death.  Only.  .  .  ."  The  voice  quivered.  A  sob 
shook  the  great  shoulders.  "Doctor,  of  what  did  she  die?" 

Without  a  word  Beamish  walked  over  to  the  outer  door; 
locked  it.  Then,  "  Where  do  these  lead?  "  he  asked,  pointing 
to  a  flight  of  wooden  steps  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room. 

"Only  to  the  bath-room." 

"And  the  sitting-room?  Is  it  safe?  Can  we  talk  there 
without  being  overheard?" 

"Yes." 

De  Gys  led  way  through  the  "chik"  curtain;  closed  the 
folding  doors  which  divided  the  apartment;  closed  the  shut- 
ters; clicked  on  light  and  fan;  arranged  cane  chairs  round 
the  cheap  European  table.  The  three  sat  down.  "Of  what 
did  she  die?"  repeated  de  Gys.  For  answer,  Beamish  fum- 
bled in  his  coat-pocket,  drew  out  and  laid  on  the  table  a 
flat  case  set  with  white  stones  that  glinted  like  diamonds  in 
the  shadeless  glare  of  the  pendent  electric. 

"If  he  will  tell  me  what  is  in  that  box" — Beamish  spoke 
in  English  to  Dicky,  and  his  voice  was  a  pregnant  suspicion — 
"I  may  be  able  to  tell  him  the  cause  of  his  wife's  death. 
She  was  his  wife,  I  suppose,"  the  doctor  went  on. 

"Your  pardon,  doctor,"  interrupted  the  Frenchman,  "but 
I  am  not  quite  ignorant  of  your  language.  Nor  do  I  like 
mysteries.  Be  frank,  please." 

Beamish  hesitated;  blushed;  began:  "I  found  the  box 
when  I  undid  her  blouse.  She  was  clutching  it  to  her 
breast  as  she  died.  Afterwards,  I  looked  in  the  box."  He 
hesitated  again.  "Your  wife  died  of  heart  failure,  Monsieur, 
but  before  I  can  certify  her  death  as  due  to  natural  causes, 
you  must  answer  one  question.  Did  your  wife  take  drugs?" 

"Not  drugs,"  answered  the  Frenchman.  "A  drug.  And 
only  sometimes." 

"Was  this  drug  prescribed  by  a  proper  medical  man?" 


THREE  PURPLE  SEEDS  19 

"I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  even  know  the  name  of  the 
drug.  But  it  is  quite  harmless.  Of  that,  I  can  assure  you; 
because  I  have  partaken  of  it  myself." 

Beamish  reached  out  a  hand  for  the  glittering  bauble  on 
the  table;  and  Dicky — faculties  still  benumbed  with  the 
shock  of  Melie's  passing — saw  it  to  be  an  enamelled  snuff- 
box of  obvious  eighteenth-century  work,  the  lid  flower- 
decorated  in  conventional  design  and  garlanded  with  a  true- 
lover's  knot  of  paste  stones.  "French,"  thought  Dicky, 
"Louis  the  Sixteenth"  .  .  .  but  already  the  doctor's 
spatulate  fingers  had  found  the  catch,  pressed  the  case  open, 
revealing  two  small  compartments,  each  lined  with  a  curious 
fibre,  wall -flower-brown  in  colour  and  silky  to  the  touch. 

One  of  the  compartments  was  empty;  in  the  other,  almost 
filling  it,  lay  some  twenty  or  thirty  tiny  purple  beans.  Bend- 
ing down  to  inspect  these,  Dicky's  nostrils  were  aware  of  a 
faint,  sweet  perfume,  a  perfume  as  of  tuberoses — only  rarer, 
less  cloying.  De  Gys,  too,  smelt  that  perfume :  his  memory 
leapt  at  it.  "Melie  is  not  dead,"  said  memory.  "Only 
Melie's  body  is  dead.  This  is  the  soul  of  Melie;  take  and 
crush  the  soul  of  Melie  between  your  teeth — so  that  you  may 
remember  the  body  of  Melie." 

"The  coroner  will  want  these,"  cut  in  Beamish's  voice. 
"There'll  have  to  be  an  inquest,  of  course.  I  couldn't 
certify.  .  .  ." 

"Doctor,"  interrupted  the  Frenchman,  "if  I  pledge  you 
my  word  that  the  contents  of  this  box  are  perfectly  harmless 
— a  sweetmeat — a  mere  Oriental  sweetmeat.  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  Beamish,  stubbornly,  all  the  officialdom  in  him 
at  bay.  "No.  I  couldn't  do  it.  Besides,  you  admitted 
just  now  that  she  took  some  drug." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  broken  only  by  the  creak 
and  whirr  of  the  fan  as  it  swung  on  its  long  shafting.  Then 
de  Gys  shrugged  huge  shoulders,  a  gesture  Dicky  remembered 
from  old  days  as  sign  of  reluctant  decision,  and  said :  "  Very 
well.  Since  you  do  not  accept  my  pledge,  we  will  eat  of  this 
sweetmeat,  doctor:  we  three,  so  that  you  may  know  it 
harmless." 


20  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

He  drew  the  box  across  the  table,  picked  out  one  of  the 
purple  beans.  "Do  not  swallow  them.  Chew  with  your 
teeth,  thus."  The  two  Englishmen  watched  him  take  the 
bean  in  his  mouth,  saw  the  sorrow-drawn  lines  of  his  face 
vanish  as  wrinkles  vanish  from  washed  linen  at  stroke  of  the 
iron. 

"Eat,"  said  de  Gys,  and  fell  silent,  a  quiet  happiness  dawn- 
ing in  his  red-brown  eyes. 

Dicky  hesitated  for  a  second :  he  had  all  the  Anglo-Saxon 
fear  of  "dope",  all  the  peasant's  distrust  of  strange  foods. 

"Because  you  could  not  help  loving  her;  because  you 
coveted  her;  because,  even  despite  our  friendship,  your  heart 
plotted  to  take  her  from  me,  eat!" 

De  Gys  spoke  without  emotion,  without  haste,  as  men 
speak  of  what  is  long  past.  His  friend's  lips  tightened  under 
the  flat  moustache;  almost,  a  blush  suffused  the  white  of  his 
temples. 

"You  accuse  me,"  began  Dicky. 

De  Gys  smiled.  "I  accuse  you  of  nothing,  dear  friend. 
I  only  ask  you  to  eat  one  of  these  little  seeds."  He  pushed 
over  the  snuff-box;  the  Long'un  extracted  a  bean,  crushed 
it  between  his  teeth.  .  .  . 

De  Gys  spoke  truth.  He,  Dicky,  had  coveted  Melie; 
sitting  at  table  with  her,  passion  had  enmeshed  him  sud- 
denly with  a  thousand  tentacles  of  desire,  set  every  nerve 
in  his  body  aching  for  her  possession.  And  when  he  realized 
her  dead,  it  had  been  as  though  desire's  self  perished  with 
her.  .  .  .  What  a  long  time  ago  that  must  have  been.  .  . 
The  thing  in  his  mouth  tasted  so  cool — like  summer  moon- 
light, or  snow-chilled  mulberries.  .  .  .  He  looked  across 
the  table  at  his  friend's  red-bearded  face. 

"You  were  quite  right,  de  Gys,  I  did  covet  the  woman," 
said  the  Honourable  Dicky,  and  de  Gys  answered,  "If  she 
had  lived,  I  would  have  given  her  to  you  at  Moon-fade." 

They  began  to  converse;  and  the  doctor  listened  to  them, 
amazed.  Whatever  the  drug  they  had  taken  might  be — '  *  and 
drug  it  is,"  decided  Beamish — the  physical  effect  seemed  nil. 
He  watched  their  eyes:  the  pupils  remained  normal — no  con-  - 


THREE  PURPLE  SEEDS  21 

traction,  no  dilation.  He  looked  for  signs  of  slowed  or 
accelerated  blood-pressures,  found  none.  He  even  put  a 
questing  finger  on  Dicky's  pulse — it  beat  steadily  at  twenty 
to  the  quarter  minute.  Speech,  sight,  nerves,  muscle — all 
appeared  to  function  regularly.  Of  hypnotic,  as  of  excita- 
tory influence,  there  was  no  trace:  both  men  seemed  fully 
conscious,  in  possession  of  all  their  faculties. 

Yet  subtly,  undefinably,  both  men  had  altered.  A  happi- 
ness, scarcely  of  earth,  radiated  from  their  placid  features, 
from  their  untroubled  eyes.  They  took  no  notice  of  Beamish, 
spoke  in  a  rapid  French  which  he  found  difficult  to  understand; 
but  the  drift  of  it  he  could  follow.  And,  following,  he  passed 
gradually  from  amazement  to  a  deep  sense  of  shock,  of  out- 
rage. 

It  was  as  though  these  two  had  abandoned  all  restraints, 
relapsed  into  the  utterest  hedonism;  as  if  they  embraced 
some  cult  of  pleasure  beyond  every  conventional,  every  un- 
convential  morality.  "Not  immoral,"  thought  Beamish,  "but 
a-moral.  The  drug  has  destroyed,  put  to  sleep,  somehow 
or  other  abrogated,  that  faculty  we  call  personal  conscience." 

Apparently,  they  felt  no  sorrow  for  Melie's  death,  no 
jealousy  of  each  other's  passion.  Indeed,  mutual  desire — 
now  frankly  admitted — seemed  to  bind  them  closer  in  com- 
radeship. But,  listen  as  he  might,  Beamish  could  hear  no 
scabrous  word;  the  talk  was  all  of  Beauty,  of  Flowers,  of 
sweet  music,  of  poetry  and  of  Love :  only,  in  the  mouths  of 
these  two,  Beauty  and  Flowers  and  music  and  poetry  and 
Love — Love  especially — became  mere  instruments  of  pleas- 
ure, selfish  toys  for  body  and  mind.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  Beamish  began  to  envy.  How  happy  these  two 
must  be!  How  wonderful  to  feel  free,  as  they  seemed  free, 
from  all  the  constraining  stupidities;  to  live  solely  for  pleas- 
ure; to  know  neither  jealousy  nor  hatred.  Thus,  men  would 
be  in  the  millennium.  Besides,  as  a  medico,  it  was  surely  his 
duty  to  test  this  new  drug.  .  .  .  The  drug  might  be  of 
enormous  value,  of  curative  value.  ...  In  mental 
cases,  for  instance — hysteria,  neurasthenia.  .  .  .  Drugs, 
properly  prescribed,  were  not  harmful.  ...  On  the 


22  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

contrary.  .  .  .  Look  at  opium,  codein,  heroin,  cannabis 
indica,  cocaine.  .  .  .  Benefits  to  the  human  race  .  .  . 
Pity  that  weak  people  abused  them !  .  .  .  . 

Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  dipped  finger  and 
thumb  into  the  snuff-box,  extracted  a  bean,  paused  with  it 
halfway  to  his  mouth — and  ate. 

For  about  thirty  seconds  the  doctor's  scientific  mind  took 
accurate  notes.  "Dissolves  in  the  mouth  on  mastication," 
"  Cool  in  taste,"  "  Slightly  sucrose."  Then  he  forgot  science. 
Science,  after  all,  was  rather  a  bore:  science  contributed 
nothing  to  the  Art  of  Life:  the  world  would  be  much 
jollier  without  science.  .  .  .  But  what  a  jolly  place  the 
world  was! 


Outside,  rain  ceased  abruptly.  Twilight  came;  and  on 
twilight's  heels,  night. 

"To  love,"  said  de  Gys,  "passionately  but  not  over- 
possessively;to  love  as  the  flowers  love;  to  love  without  grudg- 
ing; to  be  free  of  all  superstitions " 

"Yes"— Dicky's  voice  took  up  the  tale— "to  be  free!  To 
feel  the  magic  of  moonlight  in  one's  veins !  To  feel  the  youth 
of  the  world  pulsing  and  throbbing  through  one's  heart! 
To  know  that  all  constraint  is  vile,  an  outrage  to  the  gods 
and  goddesses,  to  Dionysus  and  Aphrodite  and  Pan  who  is 
greater  than  all.  Old  friend,  we  have  eaten  of  the  Tree  of 
Life,  you  and  I,  of  all  men  on  earth  to-day,  we  alone  know 
Truth." 

"And  truth,"  Beamish  spoke  raptly,  "truth  is  Beauty, 
especially  the  Beauty  of  Woman.  .  .  ." 

Silence  fell  on  them.  They  sat  a-dream,  quiet  as  the  pale 
girl  beyond  the  door;  the  girl  whom  they  had  momentarily 
forgotten.  They  were  fully  conscious  of  each  other's  bodies, 
of  the  light  above  their  heads,  and  the  whirling  fan,  and  the 
open  snuff-box  on  the  table.  Only,  in  their  minds,  visions 
shimmered:  unto  each  his  desire. 

"Qa  passe"  announced  the  Frenchman  suddenly;  and  he 
looked  at  Dicky,  a  little  flash  as  of  jealousy  in  his  eyes. 


THREE  PURPLE  SEEDS  23 

"Oui.  Ca  passe."  The  Long'un  rose  from  his  chair, 
stared  down  puzzled  into  Cyprian's  face.  "De  Gys,  what 
happened?  Were  we  drugged?  Look  at  old  Beamish — he's 
fast  asleep." 

But  the  Frenchman  had  relapsed  into  vision-land,  and 
Cyprian's  voice  answered: 

"I'm  not  asleep,  Long'un,  only  rather  happy.  I'm  sorry 
I  made  such  a  fuss  about  that  death-certificate.  One 
mustn't  be  suspicious  of  people,  must  one?  You  understand 
that." 

"Yes,"  said  Dicky,  "I  understand." 

He  did  not  understand,  not  in  the  least.  He  only  realized 
that  for  the  space  of  a  whole  hour  life  had  become  utterly 
exquisite,  a  glory.  And  now  life  was  itself  again — drab. 

"Somebody  will  have  to  see  about  the  funeral,"  thought 
Dicky.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  Beamish  dreamed.  In  that  dream  all  the 
subconscious  hopes  of  Beamish's  mind  took  unto  themselves 
visible  shape,  became  realities.  He  saw  the  second  country 
of  his  desire,  no  longer  nebulous  but  actually  in  being — a 
vision  accomplished.  Such  a  country  it  was:  sunshine 
glowing  on  its  flower-studded  lawns,  on  its  great  trees  heavy 
with  bloom,  on  its  glassy  water-courses:  a  country  of 
infinite  peace,  of  infinite  leisure.  .  .  .  For  all  among 
the  lawns  and  the  trees,  all  adown  the  banks  of  the  glassy 
water-courses,  Beamish  could  see  young  men  and  maidens 
dancing  to  soft  music,  dancing  and  singing  and  making  love 
in  the  sunshine.  "It  is  real,"  he  said,  aloud.  "Real!  I 
shall  never  doubt  again." 

"What  is  real?"  asked  Dicky's  voice. 

"The  land  of  heart's  desire." 

"Yes" — de  Gys  rose  abruptly  from  his  chair — "one  sees 
that  when  one  eats  of  Melie's  little  purple  seeds."  He  took 
the  snuff-box  from  the  table;  snapped-to  the  catch;  slipped 
it  into  his  pocket.  The  old  lines  of  sorrow  were  back  in  his 
face;  he  eyed  the  closed  doors  wistfully,  hungrily.  "You  do 
not  suspect  the  drug,  doctor?  You  will  sign  those  papers?" 

Cyprian  Beamish  nodded  assent. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRD 

"White  women  beyond  the  mountains'9 

THE  Mother  of  all  Churches  is  very  wise:  to  her,  East 
and  West,  saint  and  sinner,  are  one;  always,  her 
ministers  wait,  loins  girded,  for  the  call.  Two  nuns 
watched  out  the  night  with  Melie;  and  when  sunrise  dimmed 
the  tall  candles  about  her  curtained  bed  Phu-nan  crept  in  on 
noiseless  feet  to  announce  that  Mother  Church  was  prepared. 
Brown  men,  converts  of  Mother  Church,  carried  away  the 
husk  of  Melie;  and  the  Jesuits  said  masses  for  her  soul  in  their 
cool  chapel  among  the  odorous  Malayan  trees.  Red  frangi- 
pane  and  redder  hibiscus  decked  the  white  head-stone  where- 
on brown  fingers  carved  the  legend:  "Melie.  Wife  of 
Commandant  Rene  de  Gys.  Pray  for  her."  Verily,  the 
Mother  of  all  Churches,  who  forgave  that  white  untruth,  is 
very  wise.  .  .  . 

Three  days  de  Gys  mourned;  and  the  two  Englishmen  re- 
spected his  grief.  Of  Melie  he  spoke  seldom;  of  the  myster- 
ious drug,  never.  He  was  distrait,  self -concentrated.  But 
he  begged  them  not  to  leave  him;  and  they  waited  on  at 
Singapore,  cancelling  their  berths  to  Hong-Kong,  puzzled  and 
curious.  For  neither  Dicky  nor  Beamish  could  forget  the 
dead  girl  and  the  jewelled  snuff-box,  and  the  purple  seeds,  and 
the  strange  happiness  which  had  been  theirs  for  an  hour. 

The  drug  left  bizarre  memories  which  grew  more  tantaliz- 
ing as  they  receded.  Comparing  notes,  both  agreed  on  its 
taste,  the  sweetness  and  the  perfume  of  it;  but  they  differed 
radically  about  its  effect. 

To  Dicky,  looking  back,  the  thing  was  a  stimulant,  alcohol 
refined  to  its  most  dangerous.  While  under  its  influence — 
details  of  how  that  influence  began  escaped  him — he  remem- 

24 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  25 

bered  himself  talking  foolishly  and  at  random:  "classical 
nonsense"  was  the  phrase :  rather  in  the  manner  of  a  certain 
decadent  poetic  set  who  had  forgathered  occasionally  in  his 
rooms  at  Oxford. 

"Dangerous  stuff,"  he  said  to  Beamish,  "makes  a  fellow 
talk  too  much.  Still,  I  wish  we  could  find  out.  .  .  ." 

"We  must  find  out.  It's  not  dangerous;  it's — it's" — 
Beamish  fumbled  for  his  word — "it's  miraculous.  I  shall 
never  be  satisfied  until  I  can  bring  those  seeds  within  reach  of 
all  humanity.  Think  of  it,  Long'un:  a  drug  which  might 
give  back  the  happiness  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  to  the 
whole  world.  And  no  after-effects !  No  unhealthy  cravings ! 
Only  the  knowledge  that  one  has  seen  the  ideal  life  come 
true."  He  enlarged  the  theme.  "If  people  could  only  be 
persuaded  to  take  enough  of  this  wonderful  plant  they 
wouldn't  be  so  stubborn,  so  materialistic.  .  .  ." 

"Vegetarian  Socialism  this  time,"  smiled  the  Honourable 
Richard. 

"Well,  and  what  are  Socialism  and  Vegetarianism  except 
the  Ideals  of  great  Thinkers.  Ideals  must  triumph  in  the 
end,  Long'un." 

"Even  if  you  have  to  dope  the  whole  human  race  first." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Beamish. 

For,  to  Beamish,  despite  his  protestations  that  it  left  no 
after-effect,  the  drug  had  become  an  obsession.  Nightly,  as 
he  lay  on  his  sheetless  bedstead — fan  whirling  above  the 
mosquito-curtains,  one  leg  cocked  up  for  coolth  on  the  long 
bolster  which  is  called  a  "  Dutch  wife"  in  the  jargon  of  the 
F.M.S.* — his  mind  would  re-live  ecstasy :  he  would  see  again 
the  land  of  his  heart's  desire,  its  soft  sunshine,  and  its  maidens 
dancing  on  flower-studded  lawns  in  the  shade  of  great  trees 
heavy  with  bloom. 

His  shocked  feelings  when  he  first  listened  to  the  French- 
man's conversation  with  Dicky,  the  doctor — oddly  enough — 
had  decided  to  forget! 


*Federated  Malay  States. 


26  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

On  the  fourth  day  after  Melie's  burial  de  Gys  was  almost 
himself  again.  His  voice,  hitherto  subdued,  rose  to  the  old 
pitch;  his  red-brown  eyes  glinted  strength  if  not  merriment; 
even  his  beard  seemed  to  share  in  the  general  metamorphosis, 
curled  arrogantly  under  a  vast,  caressing  hand. 

"These  women!"  he  rumbled  over  a  tea-time  cocktail. 
"They  make  women  of  us  all.  Except  of  you  Anglo-Saxons " 
— his  look  towards  Dicky  was  sheer  friendship.  "And  you 
do  not  love  women,  you  only  sentimentalize  over  them.  For 
you,  they  are  all  Madonnas — even  the  worst.  Perhaps  that 
is  the  essence  of  your  greatness." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  Beamish  spoke. 

"Naturally,  because  you  are  an  Anglo-Saxon,  a  woman- 
worshipper — therefore,  in  the  battle  of  life,  you  fight  alone. 
The  She,  the  white  and  wonderful  She — they  are  all  white  and 
wonderful,  your  Shes — waits  till  the  battle  is  won  before  you 
kiss  her  finger-tips.  Pah,"  his  voice  lifted,  "who  wants 
to  kiss  finger-tips?" 

Dicky,  who  disliked  sex-talk,  switched  the  subject;  but 
that  evening  after  dinner — they  had  dined  well,  drunk 
better — de  Gys  reverted  to  it  again. 

"My  friends,"  said  de  Gys,  "you  have  been  very  good  to 
me.  In  return,  let  me  tell  you  a  story — the  story  of  a 
beautiful  woman.  That  much  I  owe  you." 

Said  the  Long'un,  blowing  fanwards  a  smoke-ring  from  his 
Manila:  "Is  it  of  your  wife  you  wish  to  tell  us?" 

They  were  in  De  Gys'  sitting-room,  and  the  Frenchman 
glanced  reminiscently  at  the  open  doorway  before  replying, 
"Yes.  Of  her." 

"And  the  drug!"  Beamish's  dull  eyes  lit.  "Will  you 
tell  us  about  that,  too,  Monsieur?" 

"It  is  part  of  the  tale,"  said  de  Gys,  and  began: 

"Eh  bien,  you  must  understand  first  that  she  was  not  my 
wife.  When  you  met  us  we  had  been  together  less  than  a 
month.  But  in  that  time  I  had  learned  to  love  her — 
passionately,  devotedly :  so  much  so  that,  if  she  had  not  died, 
I  would  have  married  her,  my  Melie  whom  I  stole.  .  .  ." 

"Stole?"  interrupted  Dicky. 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  27 

"Yes — stole.  Does  that  upset  you,  my  virtuous  friend? 
All  the  same,  it  is  true.  You  have  never  been  to  Saigon,  I 
suppose.  Therefore,  you  do  not  know  la  mere  Mathurin, 
who  keeps  the  little  cafe  on  the  Cholon  road.  When  one  has 
been  long  up  country,  when  one  is  a  stranger,  when  one  has 
drunk  too  many  'Rainbows,'  when  one  is  tired  of  la  touffiane* 
and  the  congais  of  Cholon — one  drifts  to  the  little  cafe  of  the 
Mother  Mathurin,  and  perhaps  one  dances  a  little,  or  buys 
sweet  champagne  at  two  piastres  the  half  bottle  for  the  little 
daughters  of  the  Mother.  ...  It  was  there,  late  one 
night,  that  I  found  Melie. 

"The  little  daughters  wearied  me;  the  old  woman — she 
grows  very  old  these  days — slept  on  her  long  chair  in  the 
verandah;  so,  from  sheer  ennui,  I  wandered  out  through  the 
house  into  the  garden.  There  is  a  summer  house  in  the 
garden — a  big  affair  of  bamboo,  roofed  with  straw.  Out  of 
mere  curiosity  I  tried  to  get  into  the  summer  house;  but  the 
door  was  locked.  That  irritated  me:  one  does  not  like 
locked  doors  in  the  East.  I  hammered  with  my  stick;  I  called 
out, 'Is  any  one  there?'  No  answer!  I  called  again.  .  .  . 

"At  last  a  woman's  voice  answered  me:  'Yes.  I  am 
here.  Who  is  it?'  I  said:  'A  friend.  Open!'  The  door 
unclosed  very  cautiously;  and  I  looked  on  Melie  for  the  first 
time." 

De  Gys  paused.  Dicky  saw  one  hand  clench  convulsively 
as  memory  stabbed  at  the  brain. 

"Powr  la  premiere  fois  /"  The  red  man  rose  from  his 
chair;  began  to  stride,  very  slowly,  up  and  down  the  sitting- 
room.  "My  friends,  I  am  no  sentimentalist  about  women. 
They  are  of  the  earth,  earthly — even  as  we  are.  But  when- 
ever I  think  of  that  moment  I  seem  to  understand  your 
Anglo-Saxon  idealism,  your  cult  that  would  make  angels  of 
these  earthly  creatures.  .  .  . 

"She  stood  there,  my  little  Melie,  white  in  the  gloom, 
hands  fluttering  at  her  breasts,  gold  hair  shimmering  about 
her  shoulders.  'Who  are  you  that  knock  so  late?'  she 
asked.  Her  voice  was  low  and  tense — and  afraid,  very  much 

*Opium. 


28  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

afraid.  I  told  her  my  name,  and  she  repeated  it,  twice. 
'De  Gys,  de  Gys.  It  is  a  good  name,  a  name  such  as  one 
finds  in  the  old  books'.  .  .  . 

"'And  you/  I  asked,  'how  are  you  called?  Why  are  you 
here  and  not  in  the  house?  Why  did  you  lock  the  door?' 
She  cut  me  short  with  a  gesture.  '  I  cannot  tell  you  that.  I 
dare  not  tell  you.  You  must  go  away.  You  must  go  away  at 
once.' 

"I  did  not  move:  I  was  too  intriguS.  She  fascinated  me : 
her  voice,  her  gestures,  the  shimmer  of  her  hair  in  the  star- 
light— all  became  riddles,  riddles  I  longed  to  solve.  'Go,'  she 
began  again.  .  .  .  And  then,  suddenly,  her  mood 
altered :  the  terror  went  out  of  her  voice,  her  eyes  lifted  to 
mine,  one  white  hand  pointed  over  my  shoulder,  up,  towards 
the  stars.  'Look,  de  Gys,'  she  whispered,  'look!  It  is 
Moon-change. ' 

"I  turned;  and  following  her  pointed  finger,  saw  the  moon 
— tiny  sickle  of  silver  just  rising  behind  the  hibiscus  branches 
of  the  garden.  'Yes,'  I  said,  carelessly,  'it  is  new  moon  to- 
night.' 'Moon-change,'  she  whispered  again,  'Oh,  de  Gys, 
deGys'.  .  .  . 

"My  friends,  there  are  certain  tones  in  a  woman's  voice 
which  reveal  all  her  soul.  It  did  not  need  Melie's  out- 
stretched hands,  her  pleading  eyes,  to  tell  me  the  meaning  of 
that  whisper.  Her  voice  sufficed.  She  loved  me!  How  or 
why  she  loved  me  I  did  not  know  then :  I  do  not  know  now. 
I  only  knew  desire — desire  as  much  of  the  soul  as  of  the  body. 
I  craved  for  her;  and  she  came  to  my  arms.  Her  lips  met 
mine.  She  clung  to  me.  She  did  not  speak.  We  neither  of 
us  spoke.  We  were  just  man  and  woman,  alone  under  the 
moon  and  the  stars.  .  .  .  'Take  me,  de  Gys,'  she  said  at 
last; '  make  me  yours' — and  so  she  gave  herself  to  me.  ..." 

After  another  pause  the  tale  went  on : 

"The  little  daughters  must  have  thought  me  gone,  for 
none  came  to  disturb  us.  We  lay  there,  on  the  warm,  dry 
grass,  till  the  sickle  of  the  moon  had  risen  high  above  the 
hibiscus  branches.  I  think  I  must  have  slept.  .  .  . 

"When  I  awoke  her  arms  were  still  around  me,  'Tell  me, 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  29 

little  one,'  I  asked,  'of  what  were  you  so  afraid?'  At  that 
she  began  to  tremble.  'You  must  not  ask  me  questions.  I 
forbid  you  to  ask  me  questions.'  But  I  was  not  so  easily  put 
off.  *  You  were  afraid  of  la  mere  F  I  suggested.  .  .  . 

"She  did  not  answer.  I  said  again:  'Are  you  afraid  of 
the  Mother,  little  one?'  'No.  Not  of  her,'  she  whispered, 
'but  of  him.'  'And  who  is  he — a  lover  perhaps?'  I  could 
feel  her  shudder  in  my  arms.  'He.  My  lover?  Oh,  no,  no, 
no.  You  are  my  lover,  my  only  lover,  Gys.  He  does  not 
love  women,  that  one.  He  only  loves  money.  That  is 
why.  .  .  .'  She  broke  the  speech  at  her  lips. 

"  'Tell  me  more, '  I  begged, '  tell  me  his  name. '  She  put  a  hand 
over  my  mouth.  'Don't,'  she  stammered.  'Don't  ask  me 
any  questions.  I  dare  not  tell  you.  If  he  thought  you  knew 
of  my  existence,  he  would  kill  you,  as  he  killed  Lucien.'  I 
could  not  help  laughing.  'I  should  take  some  killing,  little 
one.'  But  she  did  not  laugh;  she  only  trembled.  .  .  . 

"And  I  could  get  nothing  more  out  of  her.  Neither  then 
nor  thereafter  could  I  find  out  the  man's  name,  nor  the  hold 
he  had  on  her,  nor  who  Lucien  might  have  been,  nor  why  he 
killed  him.  Great  as  her  love  was,  it  could  not  cast  out  fear. 
Always,  she  was  afraid.  .  .  .  That  is  why  I  wonder — I 
wonder " 

De  Gys  paused  in  his  long  strides;  took  a  cigar  from  the 
drying-bottle;  bit  off  the  end;  lit  it. 

"And  the  next  night  I  stole  her.  .  .  .  All  day  I  could 
think  of  nothing.  I  was  a  man  of  one  idea.  At  dejeuner, 
after  dejeuner,  strolling  along  the  Rue  Catinat,  dining  at  the 
Club,  every  hour  and  every  minute  I  wanted  Melie.  .  .  . 

"After  dinner  we  played  a  poker;  and  I  lost  heavily — my 
mind  not  being  on  the  cards.  It  must  have  been  nearly  mid- 
night when  I  took  a  carriage,  one  of  those  two-ponied  covered 
ventures  which  we  use  in  Saigon;  and  told  the  Annamite  sa'is 
to  drive  me  to  Mother  Mathurin's.  But  I  did  not  drive  to 
the  front  door;  I  made  him  halt  on  the  road,  by  the  bamboo 
fence.  For  I  did  not  want  any  interference  from  la  mere. 

"I  made  my  way  very  quietly  through  a  gap  in  the  bamboo 
fence  into  the  garden.  A  light  burned  in  the  summer  house;  I 


30  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

could  see  it  winking  among  the  branches.  .  .  .  Melie 
must  have  heard  my  voiture  drive  up.  She  did  not  wait  for 
me,  but  came  running  out.  She  put  a  hand  on  my  arm — and 
there  was  terror  in  her  voice.  'Go,'  she  said.  'Go,  for  the 
love  of  God.  He  has  come  back;  he  is  with  the  old  hag  now*. 
And  then,  then  my  friends,  I  knew  that  she  was  my 
woman ! 

"'Go,'  she  said  again,  'go.'  For  answer,  I  picked  her  up 
in  these  two  arms  of  mine. 

"She  did  not  scream — she  was  too  astonished  to  screaja  — 
and  I  carried  her  back,  the  way  I  had  come,  to  the  voiture. 
'  Drive,  you  brown  devil,  drive  like  a  furnace,'  I  called  to  the 
sias.  He  grunted  back,  'Where  to,  Capitaine?'  'Boul~- 
vard  Bonnard.'  He  whipped  up  his  ponies.  .  .  ." 

The  Frenchman's  cigar  had  gone  out.  As  he  paused  to 
relight  it  agitation  passed  from  him.  Sitting  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  long  chair,  he  resumed  his  story  in  a  quiet,  deliber- 
ate voice. 

"And  that,  my  friends,  is  how  Melie  came  to  live  with  me 
in  my  little  appartement,  five  bis,  Boulevard  Bonnard.  I  was 
due  for  leave  to  Europe;  my  duties  were  very  light,  and  we 
spent  most  of  our  time  together  in  the  flat.  Phu-nan  cooked 
us  our  simple  meals — Melie  did  not  understand  much  about 
cooking.  In  the  evening  we  would  take  a  closed  carriage 
and  drive  to  the  Gardens. 

"She  loved  me  faithfully.  She  was  always  very  sweet,  very 
much  the  woman.  But  always  she  was  frightened;  some- 
times she  would  wake  in  the  night,  screaming  out  strange 
phrases,  imagining  me  to  be  that  other.  Then  I  would  com- 
fort her,  as  one  comforts  a  scared  child,  question  her.  'Tell 
me,*  I  used  to  ask,  'who  is  this  man?  Who  was  Lucien? 
Why  did  he  kill  him?  Why  were  you  at  Mother  Mathurin's?' 

"But  to  all  my  questions  she  refused  reply.  I  could  learn 
nothing  about  her  past,  about  how  she  came  to  the  Colonies, 
about  the  nameless  man  she  feared.  She  told  me  once,  when 
I  had  been  very  pressing,  that  she  came  from  Paris.  I  could 
not  believe  her.  She  did  not  speak  like  a  Parisian.  You 
noticed,  perhaps,  how  curiously  she  spoke.  .  .  ." 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  31 

Once  more  de  Gys  broke  off  his  narrative.  "I  wonder," 
he  muttered,  "I  wonder."  Then  he  went  on: 

"I  inquired  about  her  very  cautiously — at  the  Club — at 
the  jewellery  shop  of  the  Jewess  who  knows  everything — from 
the  head-porter  of  the  Hotel  Continental.  No  one  else  in 
Saigon  had  even  seen  her.  Twice,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
to  the  little  cafe,  to  demand  the  truth  from  Mother  Mathu- 
rin. ..... 

"But  I  never  went  back  to  the  little  cafe.  I  was  too 
haj^py  with  Melie  to  worry  very  much  about  her  past.  You 
see,,  I  loved  her — and  so,  I  respected  her  reticences." 

All  this  time  Beamish  had  listened  silently;  now,  im- 
patience mastered  him.  "But  the  drug,"  he  burst  out,  "but 
the  drug!  You  promised  to  tell  us  about  the  drug." 

"Patience,"  said  de  Gys,  "I  am  coming  to  that.  .  .  . 
When  she  had  been  with  me  ten  days  I  began  to  be  worried. 
My  steamer  for  Europe  was  almost  in  port :  but  I  could  not 
bear  to  part  from  Melie.  To  take  her  with  me  seemed  diffi- 
cult. And  yet,  to  leave  her  alone  in  Saigon.  .  .  .  She 
saw  that  I  was  worried — she  was  clever  at  reading  a  man,  al- 
most too  clever;  and  one  night,  when  I  could  not  sleep,  but 
kept  walking  up  and  down  our  room,  she  called  to  me: 
'  M on  ami,  you  are  not  happy.  Come,  let  me  give  you  happi- 
ness.' I  turned  and  saw  her,  sitting  upright  in  the  bed,  this 
little  box  in  her  hand." 

With  a  quick  movement  de  Gys  drew  the  snuff-box  from 
his  pocket,  held  it  up.  Beamish's  dull  eyes  glistened. 
Dicky,  fingers  at  moustache,  appeared  to  take  no  interest: 
but  he,  too,  felt  his  palate  give  a  little  warning  twitch,  as 
though  of  secret  desire — and  in  that  moment  he  seemed  to 
see  Melie,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  a  vast  bedstead,  gold  hair 
cascading  over  white  shoulders,  a  tiny  purple  seed  between 
her  red  lips. 

"My  friends,"  went  on  de  Gys,  "you  have  both  tasted  of 
this  drug:  you  know  if  it  brings  happiness  or  not.  But  you 
do  not  know  what  happiness  it  brings  when  one  shares  it  with 
the  woman  one  loves.  For  that  night  we  forgot  the  world — 
she  her  fears,  I  my  curiosity. 


32  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"And  the  next  day  I  decided  to  take  her  with  me.  We 
planned  a  trip,  not  to  Europe  but  to  India.  .  .  .  How 
that  trip  ended,  you  both  saw." 

There  was  a  tense  silence  as  de  Gys  finished.  Then  he 
said,  for  the  third  time,  "I  wonder — I  wonder." 

"Mon  ami,'9  Dicky  spoke,  "you  did  not  tell  us  this  story 
for  no  purpose.  What  do  you  wonder?  What  is  at  the  back 
of  your  mind?" 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  huge  shoulders.  "At  the  back 
of  my  mind,  man  vieux,  there  are  various  questions.  The 
first  I  put  to  Monsieur  Beamish  four  days  ago.  Now,  I 
put  it  to  him  again.  Of  what  did  Melie  die,  Monsieur  Bea- 
mish?" 

"Of  heart  failure,  as  I  told  you  before." 

"And  the  cause  of  that  heart  failure?" 

"It  was  not  the  drug." 

"No.  It  was  not  the  drug.  Could  it  have  been  fear, 
think  you,  doctor?  A  great  and  sudden  fear?" 

"Such  things  have  been  known,"  said  Beamish. 

"In  that  case.  .  .  ."  The  ejaculation  was  fraught 
with  meaning.  "In  that  case,  it  is  just  possible — 

"And  the  other  questions?"  put  in  Dicky. 

"Of  the  other  questions  one  can  only  be  answered  by 
Mother  Mathurin — the  rest,  if  I  am  right  in  my  suspicions, 
by  the  man  of  whom  Melie  was  so  afraid."  De  Gys'  eyes  lit 
to  quick  wrath.  "  If  I  am  right,  he  is  twice  a  murderer,  that 
one:  twice  a  murderer,  I  tell  you.  Also" —  the  voice 
slowed  to  emphasis — "he  must  know  the  secret." 

"What  secret?     The  secret  of  the  drug?"  asked  Beamish. 

"Pah!  The  drug!" — scorn  laced  the  Frenchman's  tone. 
"You  think  of  nothing  but  the  drug,  doctor.  No!  The 
secret  of  which  mere  mention  stopped  the  beating  of  a 
woman's  heart.  The  last  secret  of  the  golden  land,  of 
Su varnabhumi !  The  secret  which  baffled  Macleod,  and 
Dupuis,  and  the  Dutchman  Duyshart,  and  Mouhot  and 
Francis  Garnier,  and  the  Englishman  Colquhoun;  the  secret 
which  even  Pa  vie  has  not  unravelled,  the  secret  which  has 
set  every  Indo-Chinese  explorer  dreaming  for  sixty  years." 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  33 

"What  secret?"  repeated  Dicky. 

"What  secret!"  burst  out  de  Gys.  "What  secret!  God, 
the  ignorance  of  you  globe-trotters.  Have  you  never  heard 
that  tale,  the  tale  which  runs  from  Pak-nam  to  Hai-Dzuong, 
from  Luang-Prabang  to  Binh-thuan,  the  tale  the  Red  Karlns 
tell  to  the  Laos  girls  of  Chieng-Mai,  and  Thibetan  muleteers 
to  the  flower-foot  maidens  in  the  tea-gardens  of  I-Bang. 
The  tale  of  the  white  women  beyond  the  mountains." 

Said  Dicky,  in  his  most  irritating  drawl :  "  What  are  you 
driving  at,  de  Gys?"  But  the  Frenchman  had  forgotten  his 
audience,  his  grief,  everything,  in  the  excitement  of  revela- 
tion. 

"Oh,  but  I  have  been  a  fool,  a  blind  fool.  She  told  me  she 
came  from  Paris.  From  Paris,  indeed:  she,  who  did  not 
even  recognize  a  photograph  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix:  she, 
who  spoke  the  French  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  the  French 
of  Louis  the  Sixteenth.  Tiens!  Tiens!  Tiens!  Do  I  be- 
gin to  know  the  secret;  I,  Rene  de  Gys?  Did  they  bring 
their  womenfolk  with  them,  as  we  bring  our  womenfolk  now, 
from  Paris,  those  adventurers  of  whom  the  Monk  de  Behaine 
made  use  to  put  back  Gia  Long  on  the  throne  of  Annam? 
Did  they,  fleeing  from  the  wrath  of  Thien  Thri  and  of  Minh 
Mhang,  take  refuge  in  the  mountains?  Do  their  descendants 
still  survive — westward  of  the  Red  River,  eastward  of  the 
River  Mekong!  Was  Melie,  perhaps,  the  great  grand- 
daughter of  some  aristocratic  filibuster  who  sailed  with 
Prince  Canh  Dzue  in  ninety-eight?" 

"De  Gys,"  interrupted  Dicky,  "you  speak  in  riddles.  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  the  Frenchman  grew  silent,  then  he  said: 

"Your  pardon,  friend.  I  spoke  in  riddles.  Now  I  will 
speak  plainly.  Listen!" 

And  he  told  them,  in  harsh,  clipped  sentences,  how  the 
arms  of  France  first  conquered  that  long  fever-haunted  coast 
which  stretches  northwards  from  the  mouths  of  the  Mekong 
into  China:  how,  in  1786,  Gia  Long  the  King  of  Lower 
Annam  and  his  son  Canh  Dzue,  driven  from  their  throne  by 
usurpers,  fled  to  the  Court  of  Bangkok,  and  there,  vainly 
imploring  help  of  the  Siamese,  met  the  Jesuit  Bishop,  Pig- 


34  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

neaux  de  Behaine:  of  how  the  Bishop,  seeing  in  Gia  Long's 
misfortune  a  way  to  plant  the  standard  of  his  own  country 
in  Cochin-China,  sailed  with  Canh  Dzue  for  Europe:  and  of 
how  Canh  Dzue  signed  treaty  at  Versailles  with  that  tottering 
monarch  Louis  the  Sixteenth  of  France. 

"How  Louis  Seize  perished,  and  the  Empire  with  him,  you 
both  know.  Nevertheless — Revolution  or  no  Revolution — 
my  country  kept  her  word.  In  1789  the  Bishop  and  Canh 
Dzue  returned — nor  did  they  return  alone.  With  them 
came  a  handful  of  adventurers,  of  patriots,  of  aristocrats. 

"Yes,  aristocrats!  Now,  as  then,  it  is  the  fashion  to  de- 
spise such  people.  Now,  as  then,  we  worship  the  proletariat. 
Pah,  the  proletariat!  I  am  a  Royalist,  I!"  With  a  great 
effort  de  Gys  controlled  himself.  "Anyway,  they  took 
Annam,  that  handful:  they  put  Gia  Long  back  on  the 
throne  of  his  fathers:  they  planted  our  flag,  our  Church,  our 
civilization,  in  Cochin-China.  And  :when  Gia  Long  died 
they  fought  for  our  Church  and  for  Gia  Long's  son  Canh 
Dzue  against  the  usurper  Minh  Mhang.  But  Canh  Dzue 
was  a  weakling:  he  lost  his  kingdom.  Minh  Mhang  took 
it,  and  after  Minh  Mhang,  Thien  Thri;  and  after  Thien  Thri, 
Tu  Due. 

"What  those  three  Kings  did  to  us  Frenchmen  and  our 
Church — the  tale  of  the  self-determination  of  the  peoples  of 
Cochin-China — you  will  find  in  the  history  books.  A  pretty 
story,  my  friends — a  story  of  oppressions,  of  burnings  and. 
tortures,  of  strangulations  and  impalements.  .  .  .  Read 
it  for  yourselves  one  day,  and  pray  a  little — as  I  pray  some- 
times— for  the  souls  of  the  Martyrs:  for  the  soul  of  Father 
Gagelm  whom  they  garotted,  and  Father  Odorico  whom 
they  beheaded,  and  Father  Marchand  whom  they  tore  to 
pieces  with  red-hot  irons.  The  poor  priests!  The  poor 
brave  priests.  .  .  ." 

De  Gys  paused;  went  on: 

"  But  it  is  not  of  the  priests  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  It  is  of 
the  aristocrats,  of  that  handful  who  came  with  Pigneaux  de 
Behaine.  Listen!  Of  them  no  trace  remains.  Not  one 
single  tiny  trace!  In  the  history  books — nothing!  In  the 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  35 

archives  of  France — nothing!  In  the  memory  of  living  men 
— nothing!  They  are  lost  in  the  mists  of  the  dark  years: 
the  years  of  Minn  Mhang  and  of  Thien  Thri." 

"And  you  think.     ..."  began  Beamish. 

"I  think  nothing.  I  wonder — and  I  reason.  Hear  the 
end  of  the  tale.  For  more  than  hah0  a  century  the  land  re- 
lapsed into  barbarism.  In  all  Cochin-China — throughout 
Cambodia,  and  Annam,  and  Tonkin — only  a  few  priests  still 
carried  on  the  work  of  France.  Then,  in  1859,  the  dream  of 
that  old  patriot,  Pigneaux  de  Behaine,  began  to  come  true: 
Rigault  de  Genouilly  took  Saigon.  By  1862  Charnier  had 
beaten  Tu  Due  to  his  knees:  the  martyrs  were  avenged. 
Once  more  our  Tricolour  floated  in  the  East.  Followed 
Garnier's  journey.  Followed,  at  home,  the  war  of  1870 — 
but  even  that  defeat  could  not  stop  us.  Dupuis  came;  and 
Francis  Gamier  came  back,  fresh  from  the  defence  of  Paris. 
'There  is  a  secret  to  penetrate/  wrote  Francis  Gamier. 

"But  even  he,  though  he  took  Hanoi  with  a  boatload  of 
marines,  could  not  penetrate  that  secret.  .  .  ." 

"Which  you  have  still  not  told  us,"  interrupted  Dicky; 
but  de  Gys  took  no  notice — and  Beamish  sat  very  silent, 
excitement  mounting  in  his  eyes. 

" .  .  .  .  that  secret.  Perhaps  it  is  only  a  blind  trail  I 
follow.  Only  a  blind  trail,  a  rumour  of  the  East.  The 
East  is  full  of  such  rumours:  they  bud  with  the  rains  and 
wither  at  the  dry  season.  But  this  rumour  has  not  withered : 
it  grows  always,  spreads  like  mangroves  spread  in  the  swamps. 
De  Genouilly 's  men  heard  it:  Charmer's  men  heard  it. 
Doudart  de  Lagree  and  Gamier  heard  it:  and  after  them, 
Pavie,  Harmand,  Malglaive,  Riviere — every  white  man  who 
has  sacrificed  his  life  or  his  health  in  this  fever-haunted  land  of 
Indo-China." 

Suddenly  emotion  mastered  the  Frenchman;  he  sprang  to 
his  feet.  "  I,  too,  have  heard  that  rumour,  not  once  but  fifty 
times.  The  Khmers  of  Pnom-Penh  have  told  it  to  me  in  the 
ruins  of  Angkor  Wat.  I  have  heard  it  on  the  red  lips  of  Moi 
girls  in  Tin-shuong,  from  the  toothless  gums  of  the  fisher- 
folk  in  the  Bay  of  Halong.  At  Pak-hoi  have  I  heard  it, 


36  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

and  at  Khemerat;  in  Vien  Chan  and  Phitsalok,  from  the 
pilots  of  Catba  and  the  convicts  of  Pulau  Condore.  "White 
women,  captain!  White  women  beyond  the  mountains!" 

Now  the  last  strand  of  self-control  parted  in  the  giant's 
brain:  "Dans  montaignes,"  he  chanted  in  the  high-pitched 
patois  of  the  Annamites,  "  dans  montaignes,  capitaine,  femmes 
blanches,  capitaine,  femmes  phalangse,  capitaine.  .  .  ." 

The  words  echoed  and  re-echoed  through  the  silent  room; 
beat  like  tom-tom  music  on  his  listeners'  ears. 

"And  I  laughed  at  them.  I,  Rene  de  Gys.  In  Angkor 
Wat,  I  laughed  at  them,  and  in  Tin-shuong:  at  Cat-ba  and 
at  Pulau  Condore.  Fool !  Poor  European  fool !  This  is  no 
blind  trail  I  follow;  no  foolish  rumour.  They  live  still,  the 
descendants  of  those  aristocrats — French  men  and  French 
women.  Somewhere  in  the  mountains,  somewhere  between 
the  Mekong  River  and  the  River  Song-ka,  their  stock  sur- 
vives. Of  that  stock  was  Melie;  and  Lucien  whom  the  un- 
known slew.  Dans  montaignes,  capitaine,  femmes  blanches, 
capitaine" — his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper;  rose  again,  shrill 
with  certainty — "Maisnon!  Maisnon!  Mais  non!  It  is 
no  foolish  rumour.  It  is  the  truth!  And  he  holds  the 
secret,  that  unknown  one,  that  murderer." 

Again  Dicky's  voice  interrupted:  "Calm  yourself,  my 
friend.  Calm  yourself."  But  Beamish  still  sat  silent;  and 
de  Gys  ranted  on: 

"  Calm !  Calm !  To  the  devil  with  your  English  calmness. 
Dans  montaignes,  capitaine,  femmes  blanches,  capitaine.  Yes ! 
Yes!  Yes!  They  are  there  still,  my  countrymen,  my 
countrywomen.  And,  I,  I,  I,  Rene  de  Gys,  go  to  find 
them.  By  the^seven  sales  Boches  I  slew  at  Douamont,  I  go 
to  find  them.  A  Saigon,  mes  amis  I  A  Saigon  !  Let  us  take 
the  Mother  Mathurin  by  the  throat;  and  after  her,  that 
murderer.  Let  us  wring  the  secret  from  his  dirty  lips. 
A  Saigon,  mes  amis.  A  Saigon.  I  go  to  find  the  secret. 
Who  conies  with  me?  You,  Colonel?  You,  doctor?" 

De  Gys  paused;  looked  at  Beamish.  Beamish  sprang  to 
his  feet.  "Oui,"  he  stammered.  "Oui.  Je  viens  avec  vous. 
To  find  the  drug,  I  will  come  with  you." 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  37 

"And  you,  Colonel.     You  are  with  us?" 

"I" — the  Honourable  Richard  had  not  moved — "I  think 
you  are  both  quite  mad.  Especially  you,  de  Gys.  Let  us 
try  to  be  reasonable." 

"Reasonable?"  fumed  the  Frenchman. 

"Yes.  Reasonable.  What  does  your  story  amount  to? 
I  will  give  it  you  in  few  words.  You  find  in  a  house  of  ill- 
fame  a  girl  who  is — excuse  the  phrase — addicted  to  drugs. 
She  tells  you  she  is  frightened  of  an  unknown  man.  She  re- 
fuses to  tell  you  about  her  past.  You  fall  in  love  with  her; 
you  bring  her  to  Singapore,  where  she  dies  of  heart  failure." 

"After  I  had  mentioned  the  secret 

"Admitted.  And  what  is  your  secret?  A  century-old 
story  from  your  own  country;  confirmed,  you  say,  by  a 
native  rumour.  From  this,  if  I  follow  you,  you  would  have 
us  believe  that  Melie  was  one  of  these  mysterious  'white 
women  beyond  the  mountains' ;  that  the  unknown  man — who 
may  or  may  not  be  a  murderer — not  only  killed  Lucien — 
whoever  *  Lucien'  may  be — but  so  impressed  Melie  that  at  the 
mere  mention  of  your  so-called  'secret'  she  died  of  fright. 
Therefore — you  say — the  rumour  is  true:  the  unknown  man 
knows  the  whereabouts  of  these  mysterious  women.  Mother 
Mathurin  knows  the  whereabouts  of  the  unknown  man.  Let 
us  find  her;  let  us  find  him;  let  us  find  them;  A  Saigon; 
a  God  knows  where:  vive  la  France,  etcaetera,  etcaetera." 

"Then  you  refuse  to  come  with  us." 

"Of  course  I  refuse.  Your  evidence  isn't  worth  the  fare. 
It  may  be  good  enough  for  Beamish,  with  his  crazy  vege- 
tarian ideas,  to  go  chasing  up  into  the  back  of  beyond  after  a 
plant  he  thinks  will  dope  the  whole  human  race  into  happi- 
ness: it  may  be  good  enough  for  you — who  are  bored  with 
the  very  peace  you  fought  so  hard  to  win.  But  it  isn't  good 
enough  for  me.  I've  had  all  the  roughing  it  I  want  in  the 
last  four  years.  I'd  rather  be  in  a  comfortable  state-room 
than  stewing  in  your  Indo-Chinese  jungles.  And  besides,  I 
am  not  a  free  man :  I  am  a  merchant  of  cotton." 

De  Gys  began  to  laugh.  "Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"  laughed  de 
Gys.  "A  merchant  of  cotton!  That  is  funny.  Oh,  but 


38  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

that  it  is  bigrement  funny.  And  the  poor  father  who  will  lose 
his  little  capital  of  a  billion  francs  if  the  little  son  neglects  his 
duties  as  a  drummer  for  a  few  months.  Ho !  but  it  is  good 
to  be  a  bourgeois.  The  bourgeois  have  all  the  virtues:  they 
do  not  turn  aside  from  their  money-making;  neither  for 
strange  drugs  nor  strange  adventures  do  they  turn  aside. 
Very  well,  friend  Smith.  The  doctor  and  I  will  go  together 
while  you  sell  your  pocket-handkerchiefs  to  the  merchants  of 
Canton.  Perhaps  they,  too,  use  the  Furlmere  pocket- 
handkerchiefs — the  white  women  beyond  the  mountains." 

And  the  Frenchman  began  to  chant  at  the  top  of  his  voice : 
"The  white  women  beyond  the  mountains  use  the  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  of  my  friend,  Colonel  Smith." 

"De  Gys,  you  are  an  idiot."  The  Oxford  drawl  had  lost 
a  little  of  its  sang  froid. 

"It  is  possible;  but  at  any  rate  I  have  not  the  soul  of  a 
haberdasher." 

At  that  the  Long'un  began  to  fidget  in  his  chair:  the 
ancient  race-antagonism,  the  spirit  which  has  sent  Gaul  and 
Anglo-Saxon  into  a  thousand  mad  rivalries  stirred  in  his 
veins;  and  with  it  there  swept  over  him  a  longing  for  the  old 
life,  the  life  of  a  man,  which  he  had  known  in  the  great  years 
when  Anglo-Saxon  and  Gaul  fought  side  by  side  against  the 
Beasts  in  Gray. 

"You  go  on  a  fool's  errand,"  said  the  Long'un. 

"And  you,  you  stay  behind  to  look  after  father's  shop. 
Pah!  I  thought  you  were  a  man,  my  Colonel:  and  you  are 
only  a  haberdasher,  after  all.  Eh  bien,  to  each  his  choice. 
For  me,  vive  la  France;  for  the  doctor,  vive  la  science;  for  you" 
— insult  hissed  in  the  voice — "vive  le  calico." 

"Damn  you,  de  Gys" — now  the  Long'un  was  on  his  feet, 
shimmer  of  blued  steel  in  his  eyes — "do  you  think  I'm 
afraid  to  go?" 

"Oh,  no.  Not  afraid.  Only  a  little  tired  of  discomfort, 
of  danger.  A  little  tired:  but  not  afraid.  Oh,  no,  not  in  the 
least  afraid." 

The  two  giants  faced  each  other  across  the  flimsy  table, 
and  for  a  moment  Beamish  sensed  conflict  in  their  working 


BEYOND  THE  MOUNTAINS  39 

features,  their  taut,  wordless  lips.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the 
Long'un  chuckled.  The  chuckle  grew  to  a  laugh,  to  a  broad 
grin  under  the  flat  moustache.  Both  de  Gys'  leg-of-mutton 
hands  shot  forward: 

"  Tu  viens,  mon  meux  ?  " 

Dicky's  long  fingers  met  and  gripped  them: 

"Old  idiot,  of  course  I'm  coming." 

"Then  let  us  drink,  friend.  None  of  your  potato  spirit 
but  a  bottle  of  the  Widow's  best — two  bottles — three  bot- 
tles. .  .  ." 

***** 

Early  next  morning,  when  a  sleepless  Phu-nan  brought  ice 
for  the  last  time,  he  found  the  three  white  men  poring  over  a 
map  of  his  own  country.  "What  new  demon  seizes  upon 
these  restless  ones,"  thought  Phu-nan,  "that  they  plan  yet 
another  journey?" 

But  even  if  Phu-nan  had  formulated  that  thought  into 
words,  neither  Dicky,  taunted  into  leaving  his  business,  nor 
de  Gys,  planning  new  discoveries  for  France,  nor  Beamish 
with  his  dreams  of  tabloid  happiness  for  miserable  humanity, 
could  have  answered  the  question  aright.  .  .  .  For  the 
"demon"  which  had  seized  upon  these  three  was  the  most 
powerful,  the  most  secret,  of  all  the  white  man's  demons — she 
demon  which  never  leaves  the  white  man's  elbow — the 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTH 

At  the  little  cafe  on  the  Cholon  road 

IT  IS  forty-eight  hours, steaming  from  Singapore  Island, 
southernmost  tip  of  the  Malay  Peninsula,  to  the  delta  of 
the  Mekong  River  and  City  Saigon:  but  though  the 
Equator  lay  almost  dead  astern,  no  northern  breeze  fanned 
the  sweltering  planks  of  the  Polynesien,  no  hint  of  freshness 
penetrated  to  her  curtained  bunks. 

By  day,  the  three  travellers — almost  the  only  ones  aboard 
— drowsed  in  their  chairs:  by  night,  Phu-nan,  See-Sim,  and 
Lo-pin  (a  second  Cantonese  whom  Beamish  had  engaged  in 
Singapore),  spread  the  Fan-qui-los*  valises  on  the  port 
promenade  deck  forward  of  the  funnels. 

And  there,  at  ease  in  loose  singlet,  silk  sarong  tucked  round 
enormous  loins,  Manila  glowing  crimson  against  the  red  of 
his  beard,  de  Gys  would  tell  his  companions  story  after 
strange  story — tales  of  Cambodia  and  Annam,  of  Ava  and 
Ayuthia — till  even  Dicky's  scepticism  began  to  believe  in  the 
possibility  of  their  quest. 

For  the  Frenchman  knew  Indo-China  as  a  Londoner  knows 
Piccadilly  or  a  New  Yorker  Broadway.  Of  his  forty-five 
years  a  full  twenty  had  been  spent  in  the  "golden  land": 
he  seemed  to  carry  its  maps  in  his  head,  as  he  carried  its  di- 
alects at  the  tip  of  his  fantastic  tongue. 

Gradually,  listening  to  him,  the  land  took  shape  before  the 
Englishmen's  eyes.  They  saw  it,  not  map-wise  but  as  a 
whole:  northwards  the  vast  bulk  of  Chinese  territory, 
southwards  the  endless  island-studded  tropic  sea;  and  be- 
tween these  two,  Chryse,  great  hand  of  water  and  hill  coun- 
try, pointing  one  forest-hairy  finger  to  the  Equator. 

From  west  to  east  they  saw  names  written  on  that  hand, 

40 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  41 

"Burma,"  "Siam,"  "Cambodia,"  "Annam,"  "Tonquin": 
and  the  name  of  the  forest-hairy  finger  was  "Malaya." 
North  and  south,  lines  upon  the  hand,  ran  huge  rivers:  the 
Irrawaddy  and  the  Salween,  waterways  of  Burmah;  the 
Menam,  waterway  of  Siam;  the  Mekong,  high  road  of 
Annamites  and  Cambodians;  and  the  Song-Ka,  or  Red  River, 
which  is  the  traffic-artery  of  the  Tonkinese. 

All  up  and  down  those  rivers,  and  all  through  the  hill  and 
forest  lands  between  them,  de  Gys  had  travelled,  in  steam- 
launch  and  poling-canoe,  afoot  or  on  elephant-back:  with 
all  the  brown  and  yellow  peoples  of  the  rivers  and  the  hills 
and  the  forests  he  had  talked  as  man  to  man.  But  best 
he  knew  and  loved  the  Mekong,  which  is  the  mother  of 
rivers;  and  most  he  had  talked  with  the  peoples  of  her  banks. 
He  spoke  Cambodian  and  Annamite,  and  wailing,  musical 
Siamese;  he  knew  the  simple  language  of  the  Shan  people, 
the  dialect  of  the  black-bellied  Laos  folk  who  tattoo  from 
knee  to  navel,  and  the  guttural  jargon  of  the  Khas  Khouen. 
To  Phu-nan  he  gave  his  orders  in  a  Moi  patois  which  only 
three  Europeans  understand;  with  Lo-pin  and  See-Sim  he 
conversed  in  their  own  Cantonese. 

"Complete  dictionary  of  Indo-China,"  Dicky  nicknamed 
him  on  their  last  night  aboard,  and  then  de  Gys,  a  little 
vain  of  his  knowledge,  plunged  into  history:  told  them  the 
legend  of  Rothisen,  prince  of  Angkor  in  the  days  when  a 
Khmer  Emperor  ruled  at  Pnom-Penh,  of  his  love  for  Neang- 
Kangrey,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Luang-Prabang;  and  of  the 
ruin  which  fell,  none  knows  how,  upon  Angkor  City. 

"Legend  and  history,"  finished  de  Gys,  "history  and 
legend.  Who  shall  say,  in  Suvarnabhumi,  where  fiction  ends, 
where  truth  begins.  It  may  be  a  false  trail,  this  rumour  we 
follow — a  jungle-path  that  ends  only  in  jungle.  I  have  trod 
many  such.  But  what  if  it  be  a  true  trail:  what  if  those 
lost  countrymen  of  mine,  those  lost  countrywomen,  do  in- 
deed survive,  penned  in  among  the  wild  tribes  who  make 
their  homes  between  the  Mekong  River  and  the  river  Song- 
Ka?  Then  surely,  my  friends,  this  were  a  trail  that  men 
such  as  we  might  follow  to  the  death." 


42  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"If  we  can  only  find  the  man  who  killed  Lucien,"  said 
Dicky,  drowsily;  and  fell  asleep,  lulled  by  the  snoring  engines 
and  the  swirl  of  oily  waters  overside,  to  dream  queer  ad- 
ventures in  which  he  and  de  Gys  and  Beamish  wandered 
through  endless  purple-flowering  jungles  towards  a  hidden 
city  peopled  by  a  thousand  women,  each  one  more  beautiful 
than  Melie. 


But  morning,  with  its  first  sight  of  land,  dispelled  illusions; 
brought  back  the  old  scepticism.  "A  wild  goose  chase," 
thought  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith,  as  he 
watched  the  white  lighthouse  of  Cap  St.  Jacques  grow  plain 
to  starboard,  saw  the  first  trees  of  the  mainland  peer  up  from 
the  sea-rim  to  port.  "A  wild  goose  chase,"  he  thought  again, 
as,  entering  the  river,  they  were  met  by  two  submarines, 
crawling  conning-towers  awash  towards  the  bar. 

And  Saigon,  seen  in  the  glare  of  a  March  afternoon,  seemed 
final  confirmation  of  that  unromantic  judgment.  They 
made  it  after  forty  miles  of  zigzag  steering  between  flat  banks 
whose  mangroves  dipped  to  water's  edge;  docked  prosaically 
at  a  long  wharf  piled  with  merchandise,  warehouses  in  rear; 
gave  orders  for  their  servants  to  rejoin  them  as  soon  as  the  kits 
had  been  passed  through  the  Custom-house;  and  taxied  down 
the  Rue  Catinat  to  the  Hotel  Continental. 

Beamish,  since  his  first  and  only  test  of  the  strange  drug, 
had  never  doubted  the  outcome  of  their  adventure,  yet  even 
Beamish's  scientific  enthusiasm  sank  a  little  at  sight  of  that 
hostelry.  It  was  so  entirely  European,  so  utterly  Gallic, 
with  its  affable  porter,  its  clean  cretonned  bedrooms,  its 
glass-roofed  "winter-garden"  and  cafe-restaurant  railinged  off 
under  white  awning  from  the  sidewalk. 

"Vermouth?"  suggested  De  Gys  as  they  sat  down  at  one 
of  the  marble-topped  tables;  and  added,  with  a  glance  up  the 
tree-lined  boulevard  towards  the  Cafe  Pancrazi:  "A  little 
like  Paris,  is  it  not?" 

"Too  much  so,"  said  Dicky.  "You  have  Frenchified 
the  East." 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  43 

"Only  here  and  there."  The  Frenchman  smiled.  "But 
it  is  not  bad  work  to  have  contrived  all  this  in  sixty  years — 
cathedral,  opera-house,  law-courts,  docks,  power-stations, 
two  thousand  miles  of  railroad.  .  .  ." 

"And  the  secret,"  chaffed  Dicky,  but  de  Gys  cut  him 
short,  saying  with  a  gesture  of  annoyance:  "Will  soon  be 
everybody's  secret,  my  friend,  if  you  cannot  exercise  a  little 
more  reticence.  This,  remember,  is  only  a  very  small  town, 
un  vrai  patelin;  and  my  sudden  return  from  leave  will  create 
quite  enough  gossip.  .  .  ."  He  stopped  to  acknowledge 
the  bow  of  a  well-dressed  middle-aged  woman  whose  victoria 
swept  by  at  full  trot,  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the 
Boulevard  Bonnard. 

"Our  Colonel's  wife,"  explained  de  Gys,  "and  the  greatest 
tittle-tattle  in  Cochin-China.  I'd  better  report  my  re- 
arrival  at  once.  If  you  two  will  wait  for  me  here."  He 
signalled  a  waiting  rickshaw — one  of  those  elegant  cushion- 
tired  pousses  which  are  found  only  in  Saigon;  climbed  aboard, 
and  was  whirled  away. 

Beamish  demanded  tea  from  a  white-tunicked  Cambodian 
waiter;  See-Sim  appeared  with  the  hand  baggage.  Followed 
Lo-pin,  Phu-nan,  and  the  heavy  boxes;  the  street  cooled  per- 
ceptibly, began  to  fill  with  strollers,  here  an  alert  European, 
there  a  weary  Chinee;  but  still  de  Gys  tarried.  It  was 
nearly  sun-down  before  he  returned,  tooling  a  pair  of  Shan 
ponies,  silver-harnessed  to  a  four-wheeled  buggy. 

"Mount,  friends,"  he  called,  whip  raised  in  greeting,  "it 
is  the  hour  of  the  inspection  " ;  and  for  an  hour  he  drove  them 
— up  the  Rue  Catinat,  past  the  Post  Office,  out  of  the  town 
into  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  to  the  porcupine  cages  and  the 
tiger  cages,  through  red-sanded  alleys,  over  little  bridges, 
now  walking  his  ponies  between  the  many  cars  and  carriages 
most  of  whose  occupants  bowed  and  smiled  surprise,  now 
trotting  out  among  empty  avenues  of  tamarisk  and  flam- 
boyant trees;  till  the  quick  twilight  faded  to  utter  darkness 
and  they  were  alone  in  the  perfumed  silence  of  the  park. 

"One  shows  oneself,"  explained  de  Gys.  "You  are  my 
old  friends:  we  met  by  chance  in  Singapore:  you  wished 


44  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

to  see  Saigon:  I  offered  to  return  with  you:  afterwards, 
I  go  to  Europe.  It  is  understood?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Dicky;  and  began  to  hum  "Conspirators 
three  are  we — Beamish  et  moi  et  mon  ami  de  Gys." 

This  time  the  doctor  cut  him  short  with  an,  "I  do  wish 
you  wouldn't  make  a  joke  of  the  whole  thing,  Long'un." 

"Well,  it  is  a  joke,  isn't  it?"  retorted  Dicky.  "I'm  laying 
ten  to  one  against  our  getting  any  farther 'than  this  ex- 
tremely civilized  city." 


They  returned,  uncomfortably  silent,  under  the  swinging 
lights  of  the  Rue  Catinat,  to  their  hotel;  found  Phu-nan 
waiting.  De  Gys  gave  him  the  reins  and  the  usual  in- 
comprehensible order;  watched  him  walk  away  the  ponies. 

"Now,"  said  de  Gys,  "we  will  dine.  Change  your  clothes 
if  you  like;  but  oblige  me  by  not  putting  on  evening  dress. 
As  for  me,  I  will  wash  in  your  room,  friend  Smith." 

The  Frenchman  followed  Dicky  upstairs;  sat  very  silent 
while  See-Sim  prepared  the  bath,  laid  out  a  fresh  silk  suit, 
poured  warm  water  into  the  tooth-glass,  studded  silk-shirt, 
and  fastened  supporters  to  clean  socks. 


"Tell  him  to  go  now,"  De  Gys  spoke  in  French.  Dicky 
obeyed;  undressed  himself  for  his  tub;  squatted  down,  sponge 
in  hand.  Except  for  the  scars  of  his  bullet  wounds — one 
high  up  on  the  right  thigh,  the  other  through  the  left  shoulder 
— the  Englishman's  body  was  white  and  smooth  as  a  young 
girl's. 

"They  have  healed  well,"  said  de  Gys,  eyeing  the  scars, 
"better  than  mine."  He  stripped  off  his  high  tunic,  the 
singlet  below,  revealing  a  great  hairy  torso  wealed  and 
scarred  as  though  by  hot  irons. 

"Rifle-bullets,  shrapnel,  explosive,  bayonets,  and  poisoned 
arrows,"  he  called  over  one  torn  shoulder,  "I  have  been  their 
target  ever  since  I  can  remember.  And  still,  I  cannot  give  up 
adventuring." 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  45 

Dicky,  bath  finished,  drew  on  a  thin  silk  dressing-gown; 
subsided  on  to  the  sofa;  lit  a  cigarette;  and  drawled  languidly: 

"Talking  of  adventures,  when  do  we  visit  Mother  Ma- 
thurin?" 

"To-night."     The  Frenchman  finished  his  wash. 

"All  three  of  us?" 

"No.     The  doctor  must  be  persuaded  to  stop  at  home." 

"He  won't  like  that." 

"He  must  like  it,"  said  de  Gys,  brusquely.  "And  now 
for  my  plan.  At  ten  o'clock  a  hired  motor  will  be  waiting  for 
us.  We  drive  straight  to  the  cafe.  The  chances  are  that 
we  shall  find  it  almost  empty — in  which  case  we  tackle  the 
old  woman  at  once.  Otherwise,  if  there  are  people — people 
who  know  me — you,  as  a  stranger  to  Saigon,  furnish  the 
excuse  for  my  presence.  Then  we  wait;  we  buy  some  sweet 
champagne  for  the  little  daughters.  Afterwards,  when  the 
place  is  quiet.  .  .  ." 

"Mon  vieux"  interrupted  Dicky,  "what  exactly  do  you 
mean  by  *  tackling  the  old  woman'?" 

Thoughtfully,  the  Frenchman  caressed  his  beard.  "As 
an  Anglo-Saxon,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  would,  I  am  afraid, 
regard  the  carriage-whip  as  somewhat  crude." 

"Really,  de  Gys!"     Annoyance  crisped  the  Oxford  drawl. 

"Ah,  I  thought  as  much.  And  this?"  He  drew  a  flat 
.38  automatic  from  his  hip-pocket;  noticed  the  Long'un's 
cynical  disapproval;  thrust  back  the  weapon.  "Very  well 
then — to  conform  with  your  prejudices,  we  will  try  diplomacy. 
If  that  fails" — again  the  vast  hand  took  counsel  with  the 
beard — "we  must  rely  upon  mere  threats." 

"Or  money?"  thought  Dicky;  but  neither  then  nor  during 
dinner  did  he  voice  the  thought. 

To  the  Englishman's  mind  de  Gys  conspiratorial  attitude 
furnished  the  last  touch  of  unreality  to  their  situation :  and 
he  decided — halfway  through  the  best  meal  he  had  eaten  in 
the  East,  a  meal  served  on  faultless  napery  at  a  red-lamped 
table — that  both  his  friends  were  suffering  from  delusions, 
possibly  after-causes  of  the  drug  they  had  taken.  So  that 
when  Beamish  (teetotalism  forgotten)  lifted  a  full  glass  of 


46  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

1914  Pommery  to  "the  success  of  our  first  step,"  and  the 
Frenchman  acknowledged  the  toast  in  a  melodramatic  whis- 
per, Dicky  could  hardly  refrain  from  a  loud  guffaw.  Still,  he 
bore  with  them  both;  even  helped  persuade  Beamish  to  an 
early  night. 

Dinner  over,  liqueurs  on  the  cleared  table,  the  three  sat 
watching  Saigon's  evening  promenade.  The  Opera  season 
was  finished,  the  night  too  hot  for  the  cinema:  it  seemed 
as  though  the  whole  population  had  forgathered  of  one 
accord  under  the  lamp-lit  trees  of  the  boulevard.  Up  and 
down  they  strolled:  dapper  little  bureaucrats  in  soft  shirts 
and  "smokings";  sun-withered  Colonial  officers  in  white 
mufti;  prosperous  merchants,  gold  watch-chains  a-swing  on 
cummerbunded  paunch,  arm-in-arm  with  wives  of  trans- 
parent bourgeoisie;  shop  girls  and  cafe  girls — a  crowd  so 
obviously  Parisian  that  the  cotton-clad  Annamites,  the  lace- 
bloused  half-caste  women,  the  Chinese  and  the  Cambodians 
and  the  occasional  Malays  who  mingled  with  it  might  have 
been  strangers  in  their  own  hemisphere. 

Nearly  all  the  Europeans  greeted  de  Gys;  one  or  two  stopped 
to  shake  hands  across  the  rail  which  separated  the  restaurant 
from  the  street,  were  introduced  to  "mon  ami  le  Colonel 
Smith  de  VArmee  Anglaise  et  Monsieur  le  docteur  Beamish." 

Suddenly  de  Gys  pulled  out  his  watch;  said  "five  minutes 
to  ten";  called  for  and  insisted  on  paying  the  bill;  got  up 
from  the  table;  shook  hands  with  the  doctor;  and  motioning 
Dicky  to  follow,  passed  through  the  back  of  the  restaurant 
into  the  hotel. 

"First  and  last  act  of  that  thrilling  melodrama  'The  Un- 
known Man.'  So  long,  Beamish;  if  you  can't  be  good,  be 
careful,"  chaffed  the  Long'un. 

But  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow — veins  warmed  with 
the  unaccustomed  wine — retorted  angrily:  "He  ought  to 
have  left  you  at  home  and  taken  me  with  him." 


The  same  idea  crossed  de  Gys'  mind  as  their  car  threaded 
its  way  down  the  crowded  street  towards  the  river.    He  knew 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  47 

himself,  though  outwardly  controlled,  prey  to  the  most 
violent  excitement;  felt  himself  on  the  verge  of  great  events; 
saw  himself  already  acclaimed  saviour  of  his  lost  compatriots, 
explorer  of  explorers,  ranking  with  de  Lagree,  with  Gamier, 
with  all  the> heroes  of  his  boyhood.  He  dreamed,  in  those 
few  minutes,  a  thousand  rapid  dreams:  visions  of  untrod 
jungles,  of  unclimbed  mountains,  of  strange  beasts  and 
birds  and  peoples:  such  fantasies  as  have  sent  the  white 
man  into  the  unknown  since  the  dawn  of  time,  and  will  send 
him  while  time  endures. 

" But  the  Englishman!"  thought  the  dreamer.  "He  has 
no  faith.  He  has  no  vision.  He  does  not  care:  to  him  it 
is  all  a  jest."  For  Dick's  languid  blue  eyes,  the  joking  mouth 
under  the  flat  moustache,  gave  no  hint  of  the  American 
imagination  which  was  beginning  to  take  command  of  his 
brain. 

"It  may  be  all  spoof,"  said  imagination,  "but  supposing  it 
isn't,  supposing  the  old  woman  can  tell  us  something;  sup- 
posing. .  .  ." 

So  the  car  threaded  way  out  of  the  Rue  Catinat;  swung 
right-handed  through  an  empty  street  of  high  stone  buildings; 
gathered  speed;  twisted  off  again  down  a  long  road  whose 
white  wooden  villas  showed  and  vanished  suddenly  between 
moon-flecked  palm-trees  and  hibiscus  bushes;  made  shadowy 
country  for  five  breathless  minutes;  and  pulled  up  with 
grind  of  brakes  at  a  low  wicket-gate  set  between  high  un- 
trimmed  hedges  of  feathery  bamboo. 

"Wait,"  commanded  de  Gys. 

"Om,  Capitaine."*  The  Annamite  chauffeur  cut  off  his 
engine,  leaned  forward  against  the  steering-wheel,  and  was 
asleep  almost  before  his  two  passengers  had  clicked  open  the 
wicket-gate. 

They  found  themselves,  de  Gys  leading,  in  a  small,  un- 
kempt avenue.  At  avenue's  end,  vaguely  illuminated, 
Dicky  saw  the  outlines  of  a  long  palmetto-thatched  bungalow, 


"The  natives  of  the  French  Colonies  in  the  East  address  all  white  men  as 
"Capitaine". 


48  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

built  six  foot  above  ground-level  on  four-square  wooden 
piles.  From  the  front  of  the  house  came  raucous  notes  of  a 
gramophone,  girls'  voices. 

"Pretty  empty!"  ejaculated  the  Frenchman. 

They  climbed  the  short  flight  of  wooden  stairs  to  a  broad 
verandah,  rose-lit  by  two  pendent  electrics. 

On  a  rickety  bamboo  table  stood  the  gramophone;  over  it, 
watching  for  the  end  of  the  record,  bent  a  girl,  who  looked  up 
at  the  sound  of  their  entrance,  stopped  the  machine,  and 
came  forward  over  the  worn  matting  with  mincing,  provoca- 
tive steps.  She  was  dressed  in  a  short,  loose-fitting  frock  of 
soiled  green  satin,  sequin-trimmed  at  hem  and  low-cut  breast; 
red  Milanese  silk  stockings,  darned  at  the  knee,  displayed 
spindle-shanked  limbs  ending  in  a  pair  of  greasy  suede  danc- 
ing-shoes. Her  dark  hair  fell  unbound  over  thin  shoulders: 
from  her  wizened,  overpowdered  face  black  eyes  surveyed 
the  newcomers  incuriously. 

"Beer,  Capitaine?" 

"Thanks,  little  one."  De  Gys  threw  himself  into  a  long 
rattan  chair;  pulled  a  packet  of  caporal  cigarettes  from  his 
pocket.  The  girl  disappeared  through  the  chik  curtains 
into  an  inner  room;  came  back  almost  immediately  carrying 
glasses  and  bottles  on  a  metal  tray.  A  second  girl,  identi- 
cally dressed  but  blonde  and  of  an  incredible  fatness,  accom- 
panied her. 

"I  am  Lizette,"  said  the  blonde  girl  to  the  Honourable 
Dicky. 

"Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mademoiselle." 
The  Long'un  proffered  a  seat,  into  which  Mademoiselle 
Lizette  sank  heavily. 

"Merci.     II  fait  si  chaud  ce  soir,  Monsieur." 

"Ow,  Mademoiselle,  il  fait  ires  chaud." 

Meanwhile  the  dark  girl,  busy  serving  the  beer,  eyed  de 
Gys  with  awakened  interest.  "This  is  not  your  first  visit 
to  Mother  Mathurin's,"  she  said  at  last,  flopping  down 
glass  in  hand  on  the  leg-rest  of  his  chair,  "you  were  here 
about  six  weeks  ago,  just  before.  .  .  ."  The  sentence 
broke  off  unfinished. 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  49 

"Just  before  what?"  questioned  de  Gys,  sipping  the  luke- 
warm beer. 

"Oh,  nothing — that  is  to  say,  the  Mother — I  mean " 

"Mais  tais-toi  done,"  interrupted  Lizette.  "Elle  a  une 
gueule,  cettefille"  she  explained  to  Dicky.  "Always  gossip- 
ing! Now  I,  I  never  gossip.  I  am  discreet — oh,  but  of  an 
enormous  discretion." 

Conversation  languished.  The  dark  girl  suggested  the 
gramophone,  champagne,  a  little  dance. 

"No,"  said  de  Gys.  "We  have  not  come  here  to  dance, 
little  ones.  My  friend,  who  is  a  globe-trotter,  has  heard 
so  much  about  the  Mother  that  he  is  anxious  to  make  her 
acquaintance.  He  would  like" — the  voice  dropped  mean- 
ingly— "to  have  a  little  smoke  with  the  Mother,  to  buy  per- 
haps a  little  of  that  excellent  tobacco  for  which  she  is  so 
famous." 

"I  will  see  if  she  is  awake."  Lizette  hauled  herself  up 
from  her  chair,  bustled  out  through  the  chik  curtains. 

Said  the  dark  girl,  turning  to  Dicky:  "I  am  sorry  that 
you  smoke  the  Mother's  tobacco.  It  is  surely  bad  for  the 
health." 

Dicky,  a  little  out  of  his  depth,  made  no  answer;  and  the 
girl  rattled  on :  "As  for  me,  I  do  not  like  la  touffiane,  it  makes 
me  sick.  A  little  cocaine  now  and  then  in  the  hot  weather, 
that  is  good;  it  cools  the  blood;  but  the  black  smoke — it 
cools  the  blood  too  much." 

De  Gys,  half-hidden  behind  the  girl's  back,  held  up  a 
warning  finger  lest  his  friend  should  protest. 

"Do  many  of  the  English — you  are  English,  are  you  not? 
— smoke  the  opium?  I  thought  it  was  forbidden.  Here,  it 
is  only  dtfendu  for  the  French  officers,  that  is  why  the 
Mother.  .  .  ."  But  Lizette's  return  interrupted  con- 
fidences. 

"The  Mother  will  see  you,"  she  announced.  "/S'iZ  vous 
plait:9 

They  followed  her  statuesque  back  through  the  chik  cur- 
tains; traversed  an  untidy  eating-room,  a  matting-floored 
passage.  Lizette  knocked  on  a  panelled  door.  "Entrez," 


50  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

called  a  querulous  voice.  She  opened  the  door,  and  the  two 
men  passed  into  the  presence  of  la  Mere  Mathurin. 

La  Mere  lay  full-length  on  a  divan  of  cane  and  black 
lacquer  piled  with  frowsy  silk  cushions:  a  stertorous 
creature,  shapeless  in  wadded  kimono,  yellow  feet  bare,  gray 
curls  straggling  over  receding  forehead.  Flat  nose  and 
slitty  eyes  betrayed  her  a  metisse,  or  half-caste  woman.  The 
hands  with  which  she  motioned  the  visitors  to  sit  down 
were  claw-like  though  not  uncleanly;  the  chin  pointed;  the 
throat  swollen  almost  to  goitre;  the  lips  rouged  above  black 
and  rotted  teeth.  Over  her  head,  grotesquely  illuminating 
the  sparsely  furnished  brown-walled  mother-of-pearl-pan- 
elled room,  hung  a  Chinese  lamp  of  painted  glass;  at  the 
side  of  her  divan  stood  a  low  table  of  chipped  red  lacquer 
still  laid  with  the  remnants  of  a  meal. 

The  heat  of  the  room — it  had  no  fan  and  thick  stuff  cur- 
tains were  pulled  close  before  its  only  window — was  asphyxi- 
ating. Nevertheless,  de  Gys  shut  the  door  before  taking 
one  of  the  chairs  Mother  Mathurin  indicated.  As  he  did  so 
Dicky  heard  the  faintest  click — the  click  of  a  key  simultane- 
ously turned  and  withdrawn. 

"  Confound  the  man !"  thought  Dicky.  "  Is  that  his  idea 
of  diplomacy?  I  wish  Fd  never  come  with  him.  I  wish  .  .  ." 

"And  what  do  you  want  of  me,  de  Gys?"  groused  the  hag 
on  the  divan.  "De  V opium?  You  know  very  well  that  I 
keep  no  opium  for  officers! " 

Dicky,  seated  and  already  sweating  through  his  clean  silk 
coat,  felt  hostility  in  the  querulous  voice;  felt  himself — in 
spite  of  his  better  judgment — growing  at  once  angry  and 
interested.  But  the  Frenchman  answered  with  a  laugh : 

"Ma  Mere,  you  and  I  have  known  each  other  these  twenty 
years.  I  remember  you  when  you  were  young  and  beauti- 
ful. .  .  ." 

"No  compliments,"  growled  the  hag,  "and,  if  you  please, 
no  insults!  I  was  an  old  woman  when  you  first  came  to 
Cochin-China;  and  I  was  never  beautiful — only  clever.  I 
am  still  clever,  de  Gys.  What  do  you  want?" 

"Information,  Mother:  only  a  little  information." 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  51 

At  that,  Mother  Mathurin  hauled  herself  half -upright  on 
the  cushions.  "Information?"  The  yellow  feet  slipped 
from  the  divan,  inserted  themselves  into  a  pair  of  dilapidated 
sandals.  "Information!  Have  you  then  been  appointed 
commissaire  of  police,  Commandant?" 

"The  information  I  require,"  went  on  de  Gys,  blandly, 
"has  nothing  to  do  with  the  police — yet." 

The  hag  laughed  in  his  face.  "  If  you  are  trying  to  frighten 
me,  de  Gys,  you  must  use  some  other  method.  The  police, 
as  you  should  know,  are  my  very  good  friends.  The 
police  much  appreciate  the  excellent  tobacco  of  Mother 
Mathurin." 

"No  one  knows  that  better  than  I.  Nor  am  I  trying  to 
frighten  you.  Nevertheless,  there  are  certain  rules  which 
even  Mother  Mathurin  dares  not  break;  and  one  of  those 
rules,  if  I  remember  the  code  penal,  compels  the  registration 
of  the  little  daughters.  Is  that  not  so,  Mother?" 

He  paused,  and  getting  no  answer,  continued:  "Now 
supposing — mark  you  I  am  only  supposing — that  there  had 
been — shall  we  say  six  weeks  ago — an  unregistered  person 
in  this  house  of  yours.  Supposing  that  this  fact  had  come  to 
the  governor's  ears" — Dicky,  watching  the  hag's  face,  saw 
it  pale  under  the  powder — "and  supposing  that  I,  your  old 
friend,  had  been  sent  to  investigate — would  you  deny.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  the  hag,  "I  should  most  certainly 
deny.  .  .  ."  Suddenly,  intelligence  gleamed  from  the 
slitty  eyes,  pallor  vanished.  "If  you  were  sent  by  the 
governor,  I  should  most  certainly  deny.  But  you  are  not 
sent  by  the  governor — you  come  on  your  own  initiative,  even 
as  you  came" — the  voice  dropped  significantly — "some  six 
weeks  ago." 

"Then  we  begin  to  understand  one  another."  De  Gys 
crossed  his  legs;  took  the  crumpled  packet  of  cigarettes  from 
his  pocket;  offered  one  to  the  old  woman. 

"Thanks,  but  I  do  not  smoke  that  rubbish."  Dicky, 
listening  carefully,  caught  a  new  note  in  the  querulous  voice. 
"And  now  that  we  begin  to  understand  one  another,  it  is 
I  and  not  you  who  require  information."  A  skinny  claw 


52  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

shot  out,  pointed  accusingly.  "It  was  you  who  took  away 
the  girl,  de  Gys.  What  have  you  done  with  her?" 

The  Frenchman  scowled.     "Your  proof,  Mother?" 

"Proof!  Proof!  Is  not  your  presence  here  to-night  proof 
enough?"  Rage  mastered  cautiousness;  the  voice  rose 
almost  to  a  scream.  "What  have  you  done  with  her,  de 
Gys?  Where  is  she?  I  must  have  her  back — do  you  under- 
stand, I  must  have  her  back." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  woman." 

"I  will  not  hold  my  tongue.  You  are  a  thief,  a  robber. 
Tell  me  where  she  is,  or  I  will  call  the  servants;  I  will  have 
you  thrown  out  of  the  house." 

De  Gys,  red-brown  eyes  glinting  dangerously,  rose  to  his 
feet;  laid  a  hand  on  the  woman's  arm.  "Old  cow,  for  noth- 
ing I  would  kill  both  you  and  your  servants." 

"Old  cow,  am  I?"— she  threw  the  hand  from  her.  "Old 
cow,  indeed!  Get  out  of  my  house." 

For  answer  de  Gys  whipped  the  door-key  from  his  pocket, 
waved  it  in  her  face.  "Neither  I  nor  my  friend  leave  this 
room  until  you  tell  us  what  we  want  to  know." 

"Bah,  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  gros  6l6phant:  nor  of  you" 
— she  turned  suddenly  on  the  Long'un.  "Why  have  you 
come  with  him,  with  this  white-slave  trafficker,  this  black- 
mailer. .  .  ." 

"White-slave  trafficker!  Blackmailer!  You  dare  to  call 
me  that.  You ! "  De  Gys  seized  the  woman  by  both 
shoulders;  and  for  a  moment  Dicky  thought  he  was  going  to 
shake  the  life  out  of  her.  "  Enough  of  this  nonsense.  Enough 
of  it,  do  you  understand?"  He  flung  her  backwards  on  to 
the  divan,  and  she  lay  there  panting. 

"Gently,  my  friend,"  suggested  the  Long'un,  still  seated. 

"Gently,  gently.  You  do  not  know  this  old  crapule.  But 
I,  I  know  her."  One  huge  fist  lifted  menacingly  above 
the  huddled  figure.  "And  she  knows  me;  do  you  not, 
woman?  Now,  then,  a  straight  answer  to  a  straight  question. 
Who  brought  the  girl  Melie  here?" 

"A  Chinaman,"  stammered  Mother  Mathurin. 

"That  is  a  lie." 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  53 

"It  is  the  only  answer  I  will  give  you." 

"His  name?" 

"I  refuse."  She  slipped  suddenly  from  the  divan,  rushed 
for  the  door.  De  Gys  grabbed  her  by  the  kimono;  dragged 
her  back;  held  her  to  him,  breathless  and  writhing. 

"You  will  tell." 

"Never."  The  hag  wriggled  herself  free.  "Never! 
Never!  Never!"  She  waddled  back  to  the  divan,  sat  down 
heavily.  The  fight  was  out  of  her  body — but  not  out  of 
her  brain.  "Never!"  she  repeated. 

"The  whip!"  said  de  Gys,  furiously.  "I  told  you  we 
should  have  brought  the  whip." 

"I  think  not."  The  Long'un,  quite  unruffled,  rose  from 
his  chair.  Obviously,  the  Frenchman's  "diplomacy"  had 
failed.  Probably,  there  was  no  "secret"  to  unravel,  only 
some  vulgar  intrigue.  Still,  just  in  case. 

"Madame,"  said  the  Long'un  courteously,  "you  told  us 
just  now  that  you  were  a  clever  woman.  I  accept  your  own 
estimate  of  yourself,  Madame;  and  presume  therefore  that 
you  do  not  underrate  the  value  of  money.  .  .  ." 

"You  would  pay  her,"  began  de  Gys.  Dicky  laid  a 
hand  on  his  friend's  arm:  "Be  quiet,"  he  whispered;  and 
aloud,  "Madame.,  what  price  do  you  set  upon  this  infor- 
mation?" 

"I  do  not  sell  my  friends." 

"He  is  a  friend  of  yours,  then,  this — Chinaman? "  "Cross 
questions  and  crooked  answers,"  thought  the  Long'un. 
"Wonder  how  much  it's  worth?" 

"Possibly."  The  slitty  eyes  scrutinized  their  opponent 
as  he  drew  a  flat  note-case  from  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

"A  very  dear  friend,  shall  we  say?  About  how  dear, 
Madame?" 

The  figure  on  the  divan  stiffened  to  attention.  "Dearer 
than  you  can  afford,  Capitaine" 

"That  also  is  possible,  Madame"  The  Long'un,  in- 
wardly cursing  himself  for  a  fool,  extracted  a  five  hundred 
piastre  note  from  his  case,  held  it  languidly  between  finger 
and  thumb.  "Fifty  louis  !" 


54  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Silence  from  the  divan.  "  Damn  it,"  thought  the  Long'un, 
"there  must  be  more  in  this  than  I  suspected." 

"Alors,  a  hundred  louis  /"  A  second  note  joined  the 
first.  Still  the  hag  said  no  word.  "Madame,  I  congratu- 
late you  on  your  loyalty."  The  two  notes  were  restored  to 
the  case,  the  case  to  its  pocket.  "  And  good-night,  Madame! " 
The  Long'un  turned  on  his  heel. 

" Capitaine"  pleaded  the  voice  from  the  divan,  "I  am  only 
a  poor  woman,  a  very  poor  woman.  And  I  owe  money, 
Capitaine,  much  money — nearly  fifteen  hundred  piastres." 

"She  lies,"  whispered  de  Gys.     "She  is  very  rich." 

"Be  quiet,"  repeated  Dicky;  and  drawing  a  chair  close 
to  the  divan,  sat  down,  re-extracted  the  note-case  from  his 
pocket,  and  laid  it  on  his  knee.  By  now  he  was  almost  con- 
vinced that  the  woman  held  the  clue  they  sought. 

"Madame,  my  friend  and  I  are  very  much  in  earnest.  It 
will  not  be  profitable  for  you  to  deceive  us.  But  if  you  are 
willing  to  tell  us  the  truth" — he  tapped  the  note-case  signifi- 
cantly— "then  perhaps  I  will  settle  those — er — debts  of 
yours." 

"For  fifteen  hundred  piastres,  Capitaine" — the  fat  throat 
swelled  with  excitement — "I  will  tell  you  the  man's  name. 
For  two  thousand  piastres,  I  will  tell  you  where  to  find  him." 

"Got  her,"  thought  Dicky,  and  counted  four  notes  from  his 
case.  The  slitty  eyes  glistened. 

"And  what  guarantee  have  we,"  interrupted  de  Gys, 
"that  she  does  not  lie  to  us?" 

"I  do  not  think  that  Mother  Mathurin  will  lie  to  us.  If 
she  does,  there  is  always  the  carriage-whip."  The  blue  eyes 
had  grown  very  stern.  "Now,  Madame,  the  name — and  the 
address.5 

"Give  the  money,"  pleaded  the  hag. 

Dicky  shook  his  head.     "The  information  first,  Madame" 

For  a  moment  Mother  Mathurin  hesitated.  Then,  as 
the  notes  crackled  provocatively  between  her  interlocutor's 
long  fingers,  greed  conquered  reticence;  and  she  turned  to 
de  Gys  with  a  leer. 

"It  was  Negrini,  Tomasso  Negrini." 


THE  LITTLE  CAFE  55 

"You  are  fooling  us" — rage  hardened  the  Frenchman's 
voice — "Negrini  died  at  Bassak  in  ninety-six.  I  knew  him 
well — the  dirty  Italian.  He  was  your  lover,  once.  Tell  us 
another  tale,  old  crapule." 

"Negrini  did  not  die  at  Bassak" — to  Dicky  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  truth  in  those  certain  words — "Negrini  still 
lives.  But  he  no  longer  calls  himself  Negrini.  His  name  is 
N'ging;  and  you  will  find  him  at  the  house  of  Pu-yi  the 
Yunnanese  in  the  street  of  the  Duck  at  Cholon.  Now  give 
me  my  money  and  leave  me  in  peace." 

"Wait,"  de  Gys'  hand  closed  over  the  notes,  "I  must 
have  evidence  of  this." 

"Evidence!"  said  the  hag,  scornfully.  "What  evidence 
had  you  of  his  death?  A  Siamese  report !  To  whose  interest 
was  it  that  Negrini  should  die?  Remember,  there  were  a 
hundred  thousand  ticals — more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs — missing  from  the  treasury  at  Bangkok." 

"And  Negrini  was  head  of  the  Public  Works  Department." 
De  Gys  chuckled.  "So  he  makes  away  with  himself — and 
the  hundred  thousand  ticals.  He  dies — and  becomes 
N'ging  the  Chinaman.  I  wonder  how  much  of  their  own 
money  he  paid  the  Siamese  Kaluongs*  to  spread  the  rumour  of 
his  death." 

"One  can  do  a  great  deal  with  a  hundred  thousand  ticals." 
Mother  Mathurin  stretched  claw-like  hands  to  the  bank- 
notes. 

***** 

.  .  .  .  They  left  her  gloating  under  the  rays  of  the 
lamp;  made  their  way  swiftly  out  of  the  bungalow,  down  the 
steps  into  the  garden.  At  the  gate  their  chauffeur  still 
slumbered  over  his  wheel.  They  climbed  in,  and  de  Gys 
tapped  the  sleeper  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"Whereto,  Capitaine?" 

"To  Cholon.     And  drive  like  a  furnace." 

The  Annamite  switched  on  his  engine,  and  the  car  plunged 
forward  through  the  moonlit  night. 

"Officials. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTH 

A  man  who  went  yellow 

PROMISES  to  be  a  nice  cheap  evening,"  remarked 
Long'un,  as  their  car  bounded  from  shadows  into 
moonlight.  "What  on  earth  made  the  old  hag  stick 
out  for  such  a  stiff  price?  " 

De  Gys  laid  a  thankful  paw  on  his  friend's  arm,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice:  "Our  Government  will  pay  more  than  that 
to  send  Negrini  to  the  prisons  of  Pulau  Condore,  my  friend. 
If  Mother  Mathurin  has  told  us  the  truth,  we  are  about  to 
unmask  one  of  the  biggest  criminals  in  Indo-China.  My 
only  wonder  is  that  she  gave  him  away  for  so  little." 

"Then  you  think  we  really  are  on  the  track  of  the  white 
women  beyond  the  mountains?" 

"When  you  have  been  in  the  East  as  long  as  I  have,"  whis- 
pered de  Gys,  "you  will  not  presume  that  the  natives  are 
ignorant  of  your  language."  He  indicated  the  Annamite's 
back,  and  subsided  into  silence;  leaving  the  Long'un  com- 
pletely mystified. 

So  they  came,  out  of  perfume  and  silence  and  silvery  moon- 
beams, into  the  flaring  hubbub  of  Cholon.  Here,  speed 
was  impossible:  yellow  faces,  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
yellow  faces,  men's  faces  and  women's  faces  and  the  grave- 
eyed  faces  of  little  children,  teemed  in  the  glare  of  their 
head-lamps,  swarmed  past  their  wheels,  vanished  and  were 
repeated  in  endless  kaleidoscope.  It  seemed  to  Dicky  as 
though  all  China  must  be  astir  in  that  long  street,  under 
those  black-and-gilt  signs,  at  those  lamp-lit  balconies,  in  the 
bescrolled  and  lacquer-fronted  houses.  The  purr  of  their 
engine  was  drowned  in  noise;  their  horn  tootled  vainly 

56 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  57 

against  a  tumult  of  sound — beating  of  gongs,  plunk  of  sanh- 
siens,  jangling  of  a  bell,  men's  voices  shouting,  women's  voices 
singing,  tink  of  swaying  glass,  rattle  of  rickshaw  wheels. 

"Left!"  called  de  Gys.  The  car  wormed  its  way  some- 
how out  of  the  seethe;  jolted  wheels  against  stone  pavement; 
gave  glimpse  of  a  lantern-lit  interior  where  four  Japanese 
girls,  flowers  in  their  hair,  sat  motionless  round  a  flower- 
decked  table;  purred  a  hundred  yards  past  silent  buildings 
whose  gables  bulked  low  against  starlit  sky;  and  at  a  stick- 
tap  on  the  Annamite's  shoulder  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  that 
flung  both  Europeans  nearly  out  of  their  seats. 

They  descended  into  the  gloom  cast  by  a  long-pillared 
portico;  jumped  a  gutter;  climbed  three  steps;  peered  for- 
ward through  an  open  doorway.  In  front  of  them  stretched 
a  high,  shadowy  hall.  From  a  bronze  lantern  at  far  end 
violet  rays  shimmered  fantastically  on  black  marble  floor,  on 
vague  gildings,  on  the  soap-stone  face  of  a  huge  seated  image, 

Gingerly,  they  passed  from  the  safety  of  open  air  into  this 
hall  of  silence.  A  vague  scent,  a  fragrance  as  of  sweet  nuts 
burning,  permeated  its  violet  stillth. 

"Opium,"  whispered  de  Gys,  as  they  waited,  silent  in  that 
strange  place,  eyes  growing  gradually  aware  of  lacquered 
doors,  of  slim  pillars,  of  silken  hangings,  and  fretted  screens, 
all  tinged  to  the  same  indeterminate  purple  by  the  dark  lamp- 
rays. 

Suddenly — so  suddenly  that  Dicky  almost  dropped  the 
light  stick  he  was  carrying — there  appeared  from  behind  the 
image  a  dwarf-like  creature,  pig-tailed,  clad  as  the  yellow 
man  in  long  coatee  and  loose  trousers;  a  creature  who  sidled 
across  the  floor  towards  them  on  noiseless  silk-slippered  feet, 
and  clutching  de  Gys  by  the  tunic,  looked  up  at  him  with 
unsmiling,  lack-lustre  eyes. 

De  Gys  bent  his  bearded  face  and  spoke  slowly — using 
the  "Mandarin"  language  of  all  China. 

"Does  his  Excellency,  the  splendid  N'ging,  inhabit  this 
most  hospitable  of  mansions?" 

"O  great  stranger,  this  is  the  humble  home  of  Pu-yi  the 
Yunnanese,  whose  servant  am  I," 


58  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Upon  Pu-yi  and  his  mansion,  upon  his  wife  and  the  wife 
of  his  eldest  son,  be  there  increase  and  the  blessings  of  two 
worthless  strangers.  But  we" — Dicky,  watching,  saw  a 
coin  pass  from  hand  to  upstretched  hand — "we  two  would 
fain  have  speech  with  his  Excellency  N'ging.  Go  therefore, 
servant  of  Pu-yi,  and  say  to  his  Excellency,  *  There  be  two 
strangers  from  Bassak  who  crave  audience.' " 

The  dwarf  repeated  the  message,  and  disappeared. 

Whispered  de  Gys,  hand  at  hip,  "I  wish  you  were  armed, 
my  friend.  The  good  Negrini  will  not,  I  fancy,  be  pleased 
at  our  message."  He  transferred  the  automatic  to  jacket- 
pocket;  clicked  safety-catch  forward  with  his  thumb. 

"What  message?"  began  the  Long'un:  but  already  the 
dwarf  had  returned. 

"His  Excellency  N'ging  sends  a  thousand  greetings.  His 
Excellency  would  gladly  give  audience  to  the  strangers, 
but,  alas,  his  Excellency  is  extremely  ill.  .  .  ." 

"Say  to  him,  servant  of  Pu-yi" — de  Gys  interrupted  the 
conventional  excuses — "that  the  strangers'  business  is  one 
that  can  with  difficulty  be  delayed.  Say  also  " — a  second  coin 
emphasized  the  word — "that  we  trust  his  Excellency's 
health  gives  less  cause  for  anxiety  than  it  gave  at  Bassak  in 
the  fifth  moon  of  the  year  of  the  Siamese  Dragon." 

Again  the  dwarf  disappeared;  again  the  two  waited,  silent 
in  the  purple  gloom.  Five  minutes  passed:  ten.  Dicky, 
glancing  at  his  watch,  saw  that  it  was  already  midnight. 

"Which  way  did  that  yellow  devil  go?"  muttered  de  Gys. 

"Behind  the  statue.     Think  he's  given  us  the  slip?" 

"I  don't  know.  Keep  your  eyes  open.  Hallo,  what's 
that?"  One  of  the  lacquered  doors  moved  on  noiseless 
runners;  showed  a  chink  of  yellow  light;  closed  again.  The 
Frenchman's  hand  tightened  over  the  pistol  butt.  Dicky, 
subconsciously  aware  of  danger,  edged  a  pace  towards  the 
soap-stone  image.  Then  the  lacquered  door  slid  full  open, 
and  a  voice  called: 

"His  Excellency  desires  speech  with  the  men  from  Bassak. 
Let  them  approach,  fearing  nothing." 

As  they  moved  slowly  towards  the  doorway  Dicky  heard 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  59 

de  Gys  rumble  to  himself,  "His  Excellency,  indeed.    His 
Excellency!    That  Italian  sneak  thief." 


Lacquered  door,  sliding-to  noiselessly  at  their  heels, 
prisoned  them  in  a  vast  windowless  apartment,  matting- 
floored,  scarlet-frescoed,  walls  hung  with  yellow  silks  that 
glowed  and  shimmered  under  the  rays  of  high-hanging  lan- 
terns. Fume  and  perfume  of  the  "black  smoke,*'  whorls  of 
blue-gray  vapour,  hung  heavy  in  a  dead  atmosphere,  through 
which — as  through  cotton-wool — the  two  made  their  way 
across  the  room. 

Hah*  hidden  by  a  teak  screen  in  the  far  corner,  body  prone 
on  a  rice-straw  mattress,  head  raised  in  suspicious  welcome, 
lay  his  "Excellency  N'ging."  By  his  side,  long  fingers  busy 
cleaning  the  flat  metal  bowl,  the  thick  bamboo  tube  and  the 
jade  mouthpiece  of  an  opium-pipe,  squatted  a  young  Chinese 
girl.  Between  them,  on  an  ebony  stool,  among  a  litter  of 
long  needles,  stood  the  lighted  lamp  and  a  silver-lidded  pot 
of  chased  malachite  which  held  the  poppy-treacle. 

"Pray  be  seated,"  said  N'ging,  indicating  two  low  stools, 
obviously  pre-arranged  for  the  visitors.  "Will  you  honour 
me  by  partaking  of  the  black  smoke?" 

"We  are  flattered,"  began  de  Gys,  and  plunged  into  com- 
pliments: while  Dicky,  inwardly  fuming  at  his  utter  ig- 
norance of  Chinese,  tried  to  sum  up  their  unwilling  host. 

Nothing  about  the  appearance  of  N'ging  the  Chinaman 
revealed  Tomasso  Negrini,  Genoese  of  Genoa.  He  wore  the 
loose-sleeved  jacket,  the  full  skirt  and  embroidered  house- 
boots  of  a  mandarin's  undress.  His  hair,  cropped  fashion- 
ably short,  was  hidden  by  a  black  satin  skull-cap,  under 
which  the  forehead  showed  yellow  and  wrinkled.  Pendent 
moustaches  framed  beardless  chin.  Nose,  ears,  cheeks, 
scraggy  neck — even  the  motionless  fingers — all  played  ade- 
quate part  in  the  Eastern  illusion.  Only  the  restless  opium- 
reddened  eyes — behind  which  Dicky  seemed  to  catch,  every 
now  and  then,  the  vaguest  hint  of  fear — were  somehow 
foreign. 


60  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

The  girl,  pipe-cleaning  finished,  unlidded  the  opium  pot; 
took  and  dipped  a  needle;  began  cooking  the  first  drop  of 
black  treacle  in  the  flame  of  the  lamp;  watched  it  swell  and 
bubble  golden;  added  black  drop  to  golden  bubble,  twirling 
the  long  needle  in  deft  fingers  till  the  odorous  ball  sizzled 
complete;  stretched  left  hand  to  the  cleaned  pipe;  dropped 
sizzling  ball  exact  to  centre  of  the  metal  bowl;  and  passed 
jade  mouthpiece  to  her  master.  N'ging  sucked  down  the 
black  smoke  at  a  single  draught;  handed  back  the  empty 
pipe. 

For  a  full  minute  "his  Excellency"  lay  silent,  blue  vapour 
oozing  from  mouth  and  nostrils.  Then  de  Gys  spoke : 

"A  truce  to  this  foolery,  Excellence!" — crisp  French  cut 
like  a  whip-lash  through  the  perfumed  quiet — "send  the  girl 
away,  and  let  us  to  our  business." 

"Business!"     Now  N'ging,  too,  spoke  French;  metallically, 
as  the  Italians  speak  it.     "What  business?" 

"Send  the  girl  away,"  repeated  de  Gys. 

"She  does  not  understand   phalangse."* 

"Nevertheless  she  must  not  remain." 

"Must  not!"  N'ging  mouthed  the  words  as  though  they 
amused  him.  "I  am  not  a  coolie." 

"Very  well,  then" — the  Frenchman  bent  forward,  eyed 
the  smoker  scornfully.  "  Since  you  are  not  a  coolie,  and  since 
the  girl  does  not  speak  phalangse,  we  will  discuss  our  busi- 
ness in  Chinese,  Excellency.  It  is  a  pretty  language,  the 
Mandarin — and  some  say  that  it  was  first  spoken  by  your 
Excellency  at  Bassak  in  the  fifth  moon  of  that  year  of  the 
Dragon  when  a  certain  Italian.  .  .  ." 

"The  devil!"  thought  Dicky.  "This  is  bluff  with  a  venge- 
ance. If  the  girl  goes,  I  shall  begin  to  believe  those  two 
thousand  piastres  were  a  pretty  sound  investment." 

At  a  sign  from  N'ging  the  girl  went ! 

***** 

There  followed  a  tense  silence,  broken  only  by  the  inter- 
mittent guggle  of  the  opium-lamp.  Frenchman  and  Italian 

*Phdangs& — Annamite  patois  for  "French." 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  61 

eyed  each  other  warily:  and  to  Dicky,  watching  them,  it 
seemed  as  though  advantage  lay  with  the  prone,  impassive 
figure  on  the  rice-straw  mattress.  At  last  Negrini  spoke. 

"You  are  a  brave  man,  Commandant;  but  like  most  of 
your  race,  a  great  fool.  How  much  did  you  pay  the  old  cow 
to  give  away  my  secret?"  De  Gys  did  not  answer,  and 
Negrini  went  on:  "At  any  rate,  she  fooled  you,  Comman- 
dant. They  will  never  send  N'ging  the  Chinaman  to  Pulau 
Condore.  One  cannot  make  convicts  of  the  dead;  and  I  am 
dying  as  I  speak  to  you.  .  .  ." 

"What,  again  /"  interrupted  his  opponent. 

Negrini  smiled.  "  It  was,  you  will  admit,  a  good  trick  that 
I  played  you.  I  have  played  you  many  since.  But  now 
the  game  is  finished.  The  poison  of  Su-rah  does  not  act 
quickly,  yet  it  is  very  certain:  as  certain  as  death  itself. 
Therefore" — this  time  Dicky  could  not  mistake  the  fear  that 
leaped  to  life  behind  the  apathetic  eyes — "  you  find  me  smok- 
ing the  black  smoke.  Be  thankful  for  these  mercies,  Com- 
mandant,  otherwise  neither  you  nor  your  English  friend  would 
be  here."  And  he  added  meaningly:  "The  house  of  Pu-yi 
the  Yunnanese  is  not  a  safe  place  for  foreign  devils.  There 
have  been  many  accidents  to  the  Fan-qui-lo  in  the  blue  hall 
of  Pu-yi." 

"Do  not  let  us  talk  of  accidents."  Dicky  sensed  con- 
trolled anger  in  his  friend's  voice;  saw  his  right  hand  steal  to 
tunic-pocket,  close  quietly  round  the  pistol. 

For  a  while  neither  spoke.  Silence,  like  the  opium-cloud, 
hung  heavy  between  them. 

De  Gys'  mind  had  gone  back  to  the  past:  he  saw  himself 
a  young  man  again.  He  was  on  his  first  visit  to  Saigon, 
seated  on  a  rattan  chair  in  the  newly  built  club-house.  All 
round  him  men — men  long  since  dead  or  gone  home — were 
gossiping.  "Negrini  is  dead.  Pontarlis  sends  the  news  from 
Bassak.  Le  sale  Italien  !  He  has  stolen  his  last  tical.  The 
Siamese  had  him  killed.  Vivent  les  Siamois.  Now  we  shall 
have  peace  in  the  delta  of  the  Black  River.  He  was  our 
enemy,  that  one.  He  was  in  league  with  the  English — no, 
with  the  Yellow  Flags.  He  was  in  league  with  the  Hos — 


62  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Deovantri  told  me.  They  say  he  meant  to  engineer  a 
second  Taiping  rebellion.  At  any  rate,  he  is  dead  now.  Let 
us  be  thankful  for  his  death." 

But  Tomasso  Negrini  was  not  dead;  Tomasso  Negrini, 
thief,  murderer,  agent  provocateur,  still  threatened  the  safety 
of  France ! 

"You  are  thinking  of  the  old  days,"  said  Negrini.  "Let 
the  girl  come  back — I  need  the  black  smoke" — again  fear, 
fear  of  the  unknown,  kindled  the  dark  pupils — "then  we  will 
talk  of  those  old  days.  Why  not?  It  will  amuse  me, 
Commandant.  Do  not  grudge  his  little  jest  to  one  about  to 
die."  One  yellow  hand  stretched  languidly  for  the  opium- 
pipe. 

"Non!"  De  Gys'  pistol,  jerked  from  jacket-pocket, 
pointed  sudden  muzzle  at  the  Italian's  forehead.  "Make 
one  move,  Negrini — and  I  fire!" 

"As  you  wish."  A  weary  smile  contracted  the  yellow 
features.  "You  came  on  business,  I  think.  Shall  we  discuss 
that  business  ?" 

De  Gys  depressed  the  pistol-muzzle.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
balancing  the  weapon  on  his  knee.  "Let  us  discuss  that 
business" 

To  Dicky,  who  held  no  clue  to  Negrini's  past,  the  opening 
conversation  had  been  almost  unintelligible.  He  sat,  half- 
stifled  with  the  opium-fumes,  looking  now  at  his  friend,  now 
at  his  friend's  enemy,  groping  his  way  vainly  through  a  fog 
of  doubt.  But  of  one  thing  the  Long'un  felt  quite  certain: 
N'ging  had  not  lied  when  he  said  he  was  dying;  N'ging's 
smile  might  be  assumed,  but  his  fear  was  very  real. 

"You  wish  to  know" — the  yellow  lips  spoke  with  deliber- 
ate certainty — "why  the  girl  Melie  was  taken  to  Mother 
Mathurin's." 

De  Gys  restrained  a  start  of  surprise. 

"You  are  well  informed,  Negrini." 

"I  hope  so,  Commandant.  I  pay  good  money  for  my 
information.  Eh  bien,  it  is  no  great  secret.  She  was  my 
wife,  my  white  wife;  and  I  left  her  at  the  little  cafe  while  I 
went  on  a  journey." 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  63 

"  You  lie ! "  The  pistol-muzzle  lifted  menacingly.  "  Melie 
was  never  your  wife." 

"I  tell  the  truth.  She  came  from  Shanghai,  from  the 
Soochow  Road,  from  Madame  Blanche's.  She  came.  .  .  ." 
Suddenly  words  ceased,  fear  had  its  way  with  the  man. 
"Let  the  congai  come  back,  Commandant.  I  need  the  black 
smoke." 

"No."    The  pistol-muzzle  never  wavered. 

"But  I  cannot — I  cannot — I  am  dying,  I  tell  you — dying." 
Yellow  fingers  twitched  convulsively,  clawed  at  the  jacket- 
silk.  "The  pain — the  pain  returns — I  am  afraid  of  the  pain." 
He  writhed  as  he  lay,  and  de  Gys  watched  him,  pitiless. 

"Melie  was  never  your  wife.  Melie  did  not  come  from 
Shanghai." 

"No — she  was  never  my  wife — she  did  not  come  from 
Shanghai.  I  lied  to  you.  I  will  not  lie  to  you  again.  I 
swear  to  tell  you  the  truth."  Sweat  pearled  the  yellow 
forehead.  "Only  let  the  girl  come  back,  Commandant;  for 
the  love  of  God,  let  her  come  back;  let  her  cook  me  a  pipe  of 
the  black  smoke." 

"No." 

"But  the  pain — I  am  afraid  of  the  pain — I  can  feel  the 
pain  already — I  can  feel  it  through  my  veins — flame — flame 
in  the  blood — the  poison  of  Su-rah." 

"Tell  us  the  truth,"  said  the  Frenchman. 

But  now  the  Long'un  intervened:  "Why  not  give  him 
the  dope,  mon  vieux?  It  may  make  him  talk." 

"Not  yet,"  whispered  de  Gys.  Shudders  took  Negrini 
by  the  stomach;  an  acrid  foam  exuded  from  his  lips.  "Not 
yet.  I  fear  a  trap." 

"Opium,"  moaned  the  thing  on  the  mattress.  "Opium — 
or  the  pain  finishes  me."  His  boots  quivered. 

De  Gys  handed  the  weapon  to  his  friend.  "Keep  him 
covered.  If  his  hands  move,  kill!"  Dicky,  sighting  over 
pistol-hammer,  was  aware  of  the  Frenchman's  huge  figure 
kneeling  by  the  lamp;  heard  him  say:  "The  black  smoke 
grills,  Negrini.  Will  you  trade  us  the  truth  for  a  night  of 
it?" 


64  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Yes,"  gasped  Negrini— "Only  be  quick.     .     .     ." 

Dark  drop  at  needle-end  sputtered  golden  to  the  flame, 
burgeoned  and  grew;  fumes  oozed  from  it;  perfume  as  of 
sweet  nuts  burning  cloyed  the  air. 

"The  pipe  is  ready,  Negrini.  Take:  but  remember!  if 
you  lie  to  us,  the  pain  returns."  Foam-flecked  lips  fumbled 
for  jade  mouthpiece,  closed  greedily,  sucked,  and  were  still. 
Head  dropped  back  to  pillow;  limbs  relaxed. 

"Has  the  pain  gone,  Negrini?" 

"Yes.  It  has  gone."  Once  more  weary  smile  con- 
tracted yellow  features. 

"Then  tell  us  how  the  girl  Melie  came  to  Mother  Ma- 
thurin's." 


This  is  the  tale  of  Harinesia  and  what  lay  beyond  Harinesia 
as  the  two  first  heard  it,  while  the  dark  treacle  sizzled  golden 
at  the  flame  and  the  blue  smoke-whorls  clotted  thick  and 
thicker  round  the  high  saffron  lanterns;  the  tale  that 
N'ging  the  Chinaman  told  them  between  his  opium-pi pes  in 
the  great  gold-and-scarlet  room  of  Pu-yi's  mansion.  Some- 
times he  faltered  in  the  telling;  and  once,  when  pain  seemed 
very  far  away  behind  the  black  smoke,  he  thought  to  take  his 
secret  with  him  to  the  grave.  But  when  de  Gys  blew  out 
the  lamp  and  threatened  to  break  the  pipe  between  two 
fingers  (drug-stained  fingers  they  were,  for  de  Gys  had  small 
skill  at  the  cooking),  then  memory  of  pain  drove  out  courage 
of  the  black  smoke;  and  yellow  lips  took  up  their  story  once 
more. 


"I  have  always  hated  you  French.  When  I  was  a  dirty 
little  boy,  begging  for  soldi  in  the  streets  of  Genoa,  I  hated 
you:  now  that  I  am  an  old  man,  I  hate  you  still.  You 
are  a  nation  of  thieves.  You  stole  Nizza  from  us,  and 
Mentone,  and  all  that  coast  which  is  ours  by  right.  Your 
boasted  Riviera  is  but  filched  Italy.  Always  our  enemies 
have  been  your  friends,  your  friends  our  enemies.  .  .  . 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  65 

"Do  not  interrupt  me,  de  Gys;  I  tell  this  story  my  own 
way — or  not  at  all.  You  are  a  nation  of  thieves,  I  say;  but 
had  those  at  home  done  as  I  prayed  them,  you  would  have 
thieved  no  more.  There  would  have  been  no  victory  of  the 
Marne  if  Italy  had  allied  with  Austria,  fallen  on  your  flank — 
only  defeat,  defeat  for  hated  France.  And  then,  then  not 
only  your  Riviera  but  all  this  Eastern  Empire  of  yours, 
would  have  been  ours. 

"Yes,  you  are  all  thieves;  and  here  in  the  East,  fools  also. 
Who  but  a  Frenchman  would  have  stolen  the  girl  Melie 
from  Mother  Mathurin's?  Who  but  a  Frenchman  would 
have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  think  the  theft  undetected?  Why, 
all  Cholon  knew  that  she  was  with  you,  in  your  apartment 
on  the  Boulevard  Bonnard!  And  if  I  had  not  been  a  dying 
man.  .  .  . 

"May  the  curse  of  God  light  on  the  woman  Su-rah.  Give 
me  another  pipe,  Frenchman.  .  .  . 

"At  least  I  have  been  a  good  hater.  Siamese  and  Cam- 
bodians, Khas  and  Annamites,  Black  Flags  and  Yellow 
Flags,  I  have  stirred  them  all  up  to  fight  you,  paid  them  to 
fight  you.  Behind  every  war  waged  against  France  in  this 
Golden  Land,  behind  every  intrigue  and  every  murder — I 
stood,  I,  N'ging  the  Chinaman!  My  money  bred  each  re- 
volt; my  money  sped  each  poisoned  arrow;  my  money  nulli- 
fied each  treaty.  .  .  . 

"Money!  I  fought  you  with  your  own  weapon,  you  see. 
A  thief  to  catch  a  thief.  And  during  five  and  twenty  years 
all  the  money  I  used  against  you — all  except  that  first 
bagatelle  I  borrowed  from  Siam — has  come  from  your  own 
pockets.  Listen!  For  every  piastre  which  France  has 
filched  out  of  Indo-China  I — a  dead  Italian  and  a  dying 
yellow  man — have  taken  ten.  And  I  spent  them  all  against 
France.  How  did  I  get  them?  How?  Ask  the  opium- 
dealers  of  Ssu-mao  and  Talan;  ask  the  merchants  of  Man- 
hao  and  Kai-hua;  ask  in  Pe-se  and  Nan-ning  and  Pak-hoi 
and  Lien-Chan !  .  .  . 

"Ask — and  they  will  tell  you  nothing.  But  to  me  N'ging, 
and  to  the  emissaries  of  N'ging,  they  will  say:  'It  is  a 


66  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

profitable  trade,  the  trade  of  the  black  smoke  which  pays  no 
lekim'*.  .  .  . 

"And  all  that  black  smoke  which  my  caravans  smuggle 
across  your  frontiers  into  Yunnan  and  Kwang-si  and  Kwang- 
tung,  is  grown.  .  .  . 

"Cook  the  black  smoke  again,  Frenchman.  But  for  that 
and  the  poison  in  my  veins  I  would  cheat  you  yet — you  who 
thieve  my  secret.  .  .  .  It  is  grown  between  the  Mekong 
and  the  Song-Ka,  in  the  Thais  country.  You  Frenchmen 
think  you  have  explored  those  twelve  cantons,  the  Muong 
Sip  song  chau  thais.  Fools  that  you  are,  with  your  surveys 
that  teach  you  nothing  and  your  native  guides  who  lead  you 
astray  among  the  forests  and  the  mountains.  .  .  . 

"There  is  a  thirteenth  canton,  de  Gys;  and  the  name  of 
that  canton  is '  yellow-island-country. '  Harinesia !  A  strange 
country,  Frenchman;  and  one  to  which  no  whites — save 
only  I,  and  Lucien  whom  I  killed,  and  the  girl  Melie — have 
yet  penetrated:  for  They  of  the  Bow  guard  its  frontiers. 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  any  more.  .  .  .  The  pain  is 
dead,  and  I  am  afraid  no  longer.  .  .  .  The  pain — no, 
no,  no!  For  the  love  of  God,  don't  break  the  pipe.  .  .  . 
I  will  tell  you  everything.  .  .  . 

"Southwards  from  Mount  Theng,  seventeen  days'  journey 
between  Hua  Pahn  and  the  Ha  Tang  Hoe.  .  .  .  Si-tuk 
my  dwarf  will  show  you  the  way  to  The  Gates.  And  at  the 
third  arrow  you  go  forward  alone.  If  Akiou  be  on  guard, 
greet  him  from  N'ging.  Kun-mer  or  Pa-sif  will  sell  you  the 
opium,  trading  in  the  name  of  the  people — and  taking  the 
profits  for  themselves.  Bribe  the  woman  Su-rah  with  a 
necklace  of  pearls.  But  if  she  fall  amorous  of  you,  do  not 
yield  to  her!  The  yellow  hell-cat!  had  it  not  been  for  her, 
I  would  have  made  me  a  trade  ten  thousand  times  more 
profitable  than  the  black  smoke.  .  .  . 

"Give  me  another  pipe;  and  listen  carefully.  There  is 
trouble  in  Harinesia.  Ever  since  Melie  and  Lucien  came 
to  Bu-ro,  finding  their  way  through  the  country  of  Pittising 


*  Lekim — Chinese  import  duty. 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  67 

the  Cat,  there  has  been  faction  in  the  land.  For  Kun-mer 
and  his  party  say  the  Flower  Folk  have  grown  weak,  urging 
that  They  of  the  Bow  should  be  sent  against  them.  But 
Pa-sif  and  the  woman  Su-rah  are  for  peace.  That  was  why 
they  gave  Lucien  and  the  girl  Melie  into  my  keeping.  .  .  . 

"  Su-rah  was  a  fool  to  be  jealous  of  Melie.  I  did  not 
want  the  girl  for  my  wife.  I  did  not  kill  Lucien  for  the  sake 
of  Melie;  I  killed  him  because.  .  .  .  Bend  your  ear 
close  to  my  mouth,  I  grow  weak  with  the  black  smoke.  .  .  . 
I  killed  him  because  of  the  Flower.  When  Lucien  was 
dead,  only  I — and  the  girl  Melie  whom  I  swore  to  torture  if 
she  but  breathed  the  secret — knew  of  the  Flower,  of  the  little 
purple  seeds  which  are  worth  more  than  all  the  drugs  of  the 
East.  ...  I  brought  her  back  to  Saigon,  and  I  gave  her 
into  the  keeping  of  Mother  Mathurin.  Then  I  returned  to 
Harinesia.  .  .  . 

"But  the  woman  Su-rah  was  too  strong  for  me.  She  does 
not  want  the  white  women  of  the  Flower  Folk  brought  cap- 
tive to  Harinesia.  She  fears  lest  the  beauty  of  the  white 
women  prevail  against  her  own  beauty.  And  Pa-sif  is  on 
her  side.  I  gave  Kun-mer  ten  thousand  piastres,  ten  thousand 
piastres  in  stamped  sycee  silver,  but  even  that  did  not  tempt 
him.  He  did  not  dare  send  Them  of  the  Bow  to  Quivering 
Stone.  .  .  . 

"Curse  all  women!  Curse  the  metisse  Mathurin  who  be- 
trayed me  to  a  Frenchman!  Curse  the  poisoning  hell-cat 
Su-rah.  Curse  Melie  and  the  women  of  the  Flower  Folk! 
Why  was  I  faithless  to  the  yellow  man's  god?  The  yellow 
man's  god  is  money.  I  swerved  aside  from  the  pursuit  of 
money  to  follow  women.  Because  of  that,  I  die.  ...  I 
should  have  given  only  the  pearls :  when  Su-rah  fell  amorous 
of  me  I  should  not  have  yielded  to  her.  .  .  .  Then,  the 
Flower  would  have  been  mine.  .  .  .  We  would  have 
led  Them  of  the  Bow,  Akiou  and  I,  past  the  Temple  of  Ko- 
nan,  through  Pittising's  country  and  beyond  Pittising's 
country;  we  would  have  lit  our  last  watch-fires  at  Quiver- 
ing Stone,  and  gone  down,  bows  drawn,  to  speak  with  the 
Flower  Folk. 


68  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Cook  me  my  last  pipe,  Frenchman.  By  the  black  smoke, 
I  lived:  let  the  black  smoke  ease  my  death.  .  .  . 

"Take  the  women,  Kun-mer.  We  have  brought  them  all 
back  for  you.  There  is  not  one  missing:  not  one  single 
golden-haired  white  girl  have  we  taken  for  ourselves.  Akiou 
bears  witness  by  the  oath  of  the  drum  in  the  Temple  of 
Ko-nan.  And  you  need  fear  no  blood-feud:  their  men  all 
died  by  the  bow.  But  the  Flower  is  mine.  ...  I  will 
send  men  to  guard  me  the  Flower.  .  .  .  They  are  only 
purple  beans,  Excellency;  no  good  for  the  yellow  man.  .  .  . 
Yes,  for  the  white  man  they  are  good  medicine.  Will  he  pay 
money  for  them?  Very  little.  Much  less  than  he  pays  for 
the  black  smoke.  .  .  .  No,  I  will  not  share  the  profits 
with  you,  Kun-mer — the  Flower  is  mine,  mine  only.  .  .  ." 


Negrini's  lips  ceased  their  mutterings.  He  lay  very  still 
on  the  rice-straw  mattress — a  limp  figure,  dim-seen  through 
the  stale  smoke-clouds. 

"Is  he  dead?"  whispered  the  Long'un. 

"No.     Only  stupefied." 

"What  did  he  mean,  de  Gys?  Where  is  Harinesia?  Who 
are  the  Flower  Folk?" 

"The  good  God  knows."  For  a  full  minute  the  French- 
man stared  at  his  enemy.  Then  he  drew  a  long  clasp-knife 
from  his  pocket,  opened  it,  tested  keen  point  on  stained 
thumb.  "Is  he  playing  a  trick  on  us,  think  you?"  He 
bent  forward;  and  Dicky  heard  the  slit  of  silk,  heard  a  faint 
moan  from  the  thing  on  the  mattress.  "No!  It  is  not  a 
trick.  He  sleeps  well.  Look!"  There  was  blood  on  the 
knife-point — a  scarlet  triangle  of  wet  blood. 

"  You  must  go."  De  Gys  spoke  rapidly.  "I  will  wait  here. 
Get  the  doctor.  Only  a  doctor  can  waken  him  now." 

"But  you,"  protested  Dicky.  "You  cannot  stay  here — 
alone." 

"Give  me  back  my  pistol,  friend.  And  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  don't  argue.  .  .  ." 


A  MAN  WHO  WENT  YELLOW  69 

Si-tuk  the  dwarf,  crouching  low  behind  the  soap-stone 
Buddha,  caught  the  quick  patter  of  shoes  across  the  hall; 
sprang  to  his  feet;  saw  a  long  figure  leap  into  the  night;  heard 
the  sudden  beat  of  a  started  car,  the  dwindling  throb  of  its 
departure.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTH 

How  Cyprian  Beamish  dreamed  curious  dreams,  and  awoke  to 
still  more  curious  reality 

THE  doctor  had  felt  very  sore  at  his  exclusion  from  the 
visit  to  Mother  Mathurin's. 
After  his  friend's  departure  he  sat  for  a  long  time 
brooding  over  the  fancied  slight.     The  unaccustomed  wine 
had  roused  all  the  suppressed  virility  in  Beamish's  nature; 
and  he  surveyed  the  come-and-go  of  the  Rue  Catinat  with 
anything  but  a  Socialistic  eye. 

"  Ants !"  thought  the  doctor.  "  Yellow  Ants !  They  have 
no  souls,  these  people.  Only  bodies,  endlessly  and  trivially 
employed.  One  day  God  will  put  his  foot  on  the  ant-heap." 
For  Beamish  was  essentially  a  religious  man. 

To  console  himself  he  ordered  a  brandy-and-soda;  drained 
it  at  a  gulp.  The  East  began  to  look  more  alluring.  He  took 
his  soft  hat,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  went  for  a  stroll.  Strolling, 
resentment  vanished:  a  whiff  of  romance  blew  across  his 
mind.  There  must  be  a  thousand  adventures  in  this  Saigon ! 
Adventure  lurked  in  the  provocative  eyes  of  the  half-castes, 
in  the  sinuous  forms  of  the  Annamites,  in  the  certain,  un- 
hurried gait  of  the  French  women.  Adventure  hung,  a 
heady  perfume  of  bruised  flowers,  in  the  tepid  air.  Adven- 
ture called,  faintest  music  of  reed-pipes,  from  cloistered  bal- 
conies, from  bungalows  half -hidden  in  shadowy  foliage.  .  .  . 

And  Cyprian  Beamish,  rather  shocked  at  his  own  imagin- 
ings, returned  adventureless  to  the  H6tel  Continental. 


Lo-pin,  having  carefully  drawn  the  mosquito-curtains,  was 
just  hanging  clean  pyjamas  over  a  chair-back  when  his 

70 


CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMS  71 

master  came  up  to  bed.  Beamish  submitted  to  the  removal 
of  his  shoes;  took  off  coat  and  collar;  dismissed  the  boy; 
clicked  on  the  table-lamp,  and  sat  down  to  read.  Purposely 
he  chose  a  well-thumbed  margin-marked  copy  of  Prince 
Kropotkin's  "Farm,  Field,  and  Village."  After  its  recent 
excitement  the  doctor's  brain  needed  a  soporific;  and  so  far, 
the  Prince's  statistics  had  always  exercised  that  effect  on  it. 

Within  ten  minutes  the  charm  worked.  Brain,  half -con- 
vinced and  half-muddled  with  misleading  calculations,  slid 
from  drowse  to  unconsciousness.  Spatulate  fingers  dropped 
their  burden;  dull  eyes  closed;  gray-fringed  ascetic  head 
leaned  backwards;  anaemic  lips  opened;  throat  muscles  re- 
laxed; and  the  sub-conscious  mind  of  Cyprian  Beamish 
assumed  its  perfect  freedom. 

Dream,  mirroring  nature,  took  the  initial  shape  of  a 
woman — of  a  golden-haired  violet-eyed  girl  whom  the  sub- 
conscious mind  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing.  She  was 
Melie,  Melie  as  Beamish  best  remembered  her,  lying  prone 
on  the  great  white  bedstead  in  Singapore.  But,  in  the  dream, 
Melie  still  lived:  one  pale  hand  reached  upwards  from  the 
bed,  proffering  the  purple  beans  of  happiness. 

"Take  them  and  eat,"  said  Melie,  "and  when  you  have 
eaten  your  fill,  give  them  to  the  world.  The  world  shall 
honour  you  for  the  .gift.  You  shall  be  a  second  Lister /a  new 
Ehrlich." 

Beamish  took  the  beans  from  her  pale  fingers  and  ate  of 
them — not  one  but  many,  as  many  as  his  soul  desired. 

Followed  vaguer  shapes :  a  giant,  huge  of  hand  and  red 
of  beard,  with  whom  the  mind  sped  unafraid  through  vast, 
tiger-haunted  jungles;  another  giant,  fair,  and  laughing — 
but  him  the  mind  struck  with  clenched  fist,  so  that  he  laughed 
no  longer;  sinuous  shapes  of  women,  heady-perfumed,  eluding 
caresses;  a  shadowy  altar  where  thousands  of  black-cowled 
monks  knelt  in  penitence. 

At  last  elusive  visions  gave  way  to  the  illusion  of  waking. 
The  mind,  convicted  of  dreaming,  found  refuge  in  Kropot- 
kinesque  statistics.  It  took  three  acres  of  unirrigated  land 
to  pasture  one  cow,  but  one  irrigated  acre  could  pasture 


72  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

three  cows;  and  a  man,  working  three  hours  a  day,  could  pro- 
duce enough  food  to  keep  himself  for  one  year. 

Also — this  the  mind  proved  by  reference  to  a  Russian  who 
was  thumbing  an  enormous  book  marked  "Communism" — 
a  grain  of  wheat  properly  pedigreed  sprouted  to  an  ear  con- 
taining two  hundred  and  sixty-four  grains,  and  a  market- 
garden  of  two  and  one-seventh  acres  worked  by  thirty  men 
and  manured  every  three  months  with  thirty  tons  of  fer- 
tilizer produced  enough  fruit  and  vegetables  to  feed  three 
hundred  and  thirty-three  families  for  three  hundred  and 
sixty-four  days.  Therefore,  nobody  need  work  more  than 
three  hours  for  three  days  of  three  weeks  every  three 
months. 

Delighted  with  the  truth  of  this  solution  the  sub-conscious 
mind  of  Cyprian  Beamish  returned  by  air  to  England. 
England — the  mind  recognized  it  from  an  enormous  alti- 
tude— was  no  longer  the  centre  of  an  Empire.  It  was  a 
purely  agricultural  island,  reposing  sun-soaked  in  a  shipless 
sea.  Its  towns  and  factories  had  disappeared;  its  counties 
were  great  golden  blobs  of  wheat  or  octagonal  emeralds  of 
pasture  through  which  the  irrigation  canals  cut  shimmering 
streaks  of  silver.  Everywhere,  from  the  jolliest  little  houses 
imaginable,  the  jolliest  little  people  were  tripping  out  to  play 
in  the  jolliest  little  gardens.  "All  accomplished  by  my  drug 
and  Kropotkin's  statistics,"  observed  the  mind,  "but  I  won- 
der who  does  the  plumbing." 

Ensued  an  aeon  of  breathless  awaiting,  during  which  Melie 
— lying  white  and  rounded  on  a  purple  cloud — discoursed 
faintest  music  from  a  pipe  of  reeds.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
mind  saw  its  millennium.  Evolution,  ranging  full-circle, 
had  brought  back  the  Golden  Age.  Monarchism  and 
Marinism,  Militarism  and  Feudalism,  Capitalism  and  Syndi- 
calism, Communism  and  Socialism :  all  these  had  waxed  and 
waned  and  been  forgotten.  Remained  only  man  and  woman, 
refined  to  their  ultimate  destiny;  human  beings,  perfect  at 
last,  in  a  perfect  land!  Arm  in  arm  they  danced:  young 
men  and  maidens,  up  and  down  among  the  golden  sunbeams ; 
hand  in  hand  they  stood,  under  tall  trees  heavy  with  odorous 


CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMS  73 

blossoms,  chanting  great  poetry  to  the  sickle  of  the  moon; 
lip  to  lip  they  lay,  by  gurgling  flower- white  river-banks.  .  .  . 
"Beamish!  Beamish!!  Beamish!!!  For  the  Lord's  sake 
wake  up  and  get  a  move  on.  You're  wanted,  Beamish. 
Damn  the  man,  he  sleeps  like  a  hog." 


The  doctor's  mind,  jerked  from  dreamery,  became  con- 
scious of  the  Long'un.  Electric  reading-lamp  still  burned, 
but  a  pallid  light  as  of  dawn  filtered  eerily  into  the  curtained 
room.  Long'un  looked  very  tired:  his  blue  eyes  had  sunk 
into  their  sockets;  his  silk  suit  was  crumpled  and  stained  with 
perspiration;  also,  he  smelt,  smelt  vilely  of  stale  drugs. 
But  what  most  struck  Beamish's  newly  awakened  eyes  was 
the  fact  that  the  Long'un  carried,  one  in  either  hand,  a  brace 
of  long-barrelled,  short-chambered,  blue-black  Smith  & 
Wesson  revolvers. 

"  What  the  devil.     .     .     ."  began  Cyprian  Beamish. 

"  Get  your  clothes  on  and  don't  argue.  Is  there  any  anti- 
dote for  opium-poisoning?  .  .  .  Atropine  and  apo- 
morphine,  did  you  say?  .  .  .  Got  any?  .  .  .  Good 
.  .  .  .  Hurry  up  with  those  shoes.  .  .  .  Here's  your 
collar  and  tie  .  .  .  Where's  your  medicine-case?  .  .  . 
In  the  trunk!  ...  All  right,  I'll  get  it." 

Still  half  asleep,  the  doctor  found  himself  hustled  out 
of  his  room,  down  the  stairs,  through  the  hall  and  into  a 
waiting  motor. 

"Cholon,"  commanded  Dicky.  The  Annamite  began  to 
protest:  "Sleepy,  Capitaine.  Me  very  sleepy.  No  have 
gasoline." 

"Cholon!  And  hurry  up  about  it."  The  Long'un 's  voice 
was  stern  with  command;  and  the  chauffeur,  turning  round 
to  renew  the  arguments,  saw  that  his  right  hand  gripped  a 
stick,  while  his  left.  .  .  .  The  chauffeur  decided  not  to 
argue  the  matter  further. 

Dawn,  the  sudden  dawn  of  the  tropics,  was  just  breaking 
as  they  roared  down  the  silence  of  the  Rue  Catinat,  swung 
right-handed  for  Cholon,  made  open  country.  The  tufted 


74  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

palm-trees,  black  and  motionless  against  white  sky,  cast 
no  shadows  across  the  red-sanded  road.  Beamish,  sleepily 
a-cold,  buttoned  silk  jacket  across  his  chest;  felt  the  drag 
of  pistol  at  his  pocket. 

"What  on  earth's  happened,  Long'un?" 

Hurriedly,  Dicky  explained.  "We've  found  the  bloke 
who  killed  Lucien.  De  Gys  is  with  him  now.  He's  an 
Italian — at  least  he  used  to  be  an  Italian — he's  turned  Chink 
in  his  old  age." 

"But  the  drug,"  interrupted  Beamish,  abruptly  awake. 
"What  about  the  drug?" 

"Apparently,  it's  called  'the  Flower';  and  it  grows  in  a 
place  called  Harinesia.  I  couldn't  make  out  hah*  what  the 
man  said.  He's  been  poisoned  by  a  woman  called  Su-rah; 
whoever  she  may  be;  seems  to  be  dying,  too.  We  had  to  give 
him  opium  before  we  could  make  him  talk.  The  damned 
stuff  stupefied  him  too  soon.  That's  why  I  came  for  you. 
De  Gys  is  still  with  him." 

The  car  darted  without  warning  into  a  perfectly  quiet 
Cholon. 

"Can't  say  I  liked  leaving  de  Gys  alone  in  that  house. 
You  know  how  the  Italians  love  the  French — and  vice  versa. 
This  chap — his  name's  Negrini — seems  to  have  been  stirring 
up  the  natives  here.  Kind  of  male  Mrs.  Besant." 

They  veered  abruptly  into  the  Street  of  the  Duck. 

"Hope  nothing's  happened  to  de  Gys.  That  revolver's 
loaded.  Better  have  it  ready.  Hallo,  here  we  are!" 

Seen  in  the  dawn-light,  Pu-yi's  mansion  looked  uninviting 
enough.  The  steps  of  its  portico  were  red  with  dust,  the 
gutter  at  foot  of  them  black  with  slime.  But  the  door  still 
stood  open — and  for  this  Dicky's  heart  gave  a  throb  of 
thankfulness.  He  and  Beamish  sprang  from  the  car,  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  hall,  before  the  Annamite  had  time  to 
stop  his  engine. 

The  violet  lamp  had  gone  out;  and  the  soap-stone  eyes 
of  the  huge  image  peered  disconsolately  across  a  dirty  floor 
at  tawdry  silks  and  tawdrier  gildings. 

"This  way,"  called  Dicky.    He  hesitated  for  a  moment 


CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMS  75 

before  three  black-lacquered  doors;  slid  back  the  centre  one; 
and  passed  through,  motioning  Beamish  to  follow.  The 
door  closed  of  its  own  volition  behind  them. 


No  ray  of  dawn-light  had  yet  penetrated  to  the  vast, 
windowless  smoking-room.  The  high  lanterns  still  glowed, 
blurred  saffron  among  the  blue-gray  poppy-clouds;  and  in 
the  far  corner,  through  the  fretted  chinks  of  the  teak  screen, 
the  opium-lamp  still  twinkled.  De  Gys  had  not  moved:  he 
sat,  beard  propped  on  one  huge  hand,  peering  down  at  his 
enemy.  On  the  floor  between  them  lay  the  open-bladed 
knife  and  the  cocked  automatic. 

"He  has  not  woken,"  whispered  de  Gys.  "Have  you  seen 
the  dwarf?" 

"No,"  from  Dicky. 

"Guard  the  door  while  the  doctor's  working  on  him. 
There's  another  entrance  to  the  room,  somewhere  behind 
those  hangings.  Look!"  The  yellow  silks  on  the  opposite 
wall  twitched  ever  so  slightly,  as  though  a  hand  grasped  them. 
"We're  being  watched."  The  Frenchman  grabbed  for  his 
pistol,  pointed  it  at  the  wall.  Twitching  ceased. 

"Can  you  do  anything,  doc?"  asked  the  Long'un — one 
eye  on  the  door. 

"I  don't  know."  Beamish  bent  over  his  patient.  "Give 
me  my  medicine  case.  How  many  pipes  has  he  had?  " 

"We  gave  him  ten."  De  Gys'  pistol  still  held  to  its  aim. 
"And  he  had  a  good  many  before  that,  I  expect.  Is  he 
alive?" 

" Only  just."  Spatulate  fingers,  unbuttoning  loose-sleeved 
jacket,  discovered  a  lean  white  breast,  ribs  protruding  skele- 
ton-wise, emaciated  arms,  a  shrunken  stomach.  The  heart 
still  beat  faintly,  almost  inaudibly.  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  do?" 

"Make  him  talk — if  it's  only  for  five  minutes,"  said  Dicky. 

"It'll  kill  him." 

"So  much  the  better,"  muttered  de  Gys. 

"I  daren't  do  it.     It  would  be  criminal." 


76  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Beamish.  The  man's  a  murderer. 
He  proved  it  to  us  out  of  his  own  mouth.  And  anyway,  he's 
dying." 

"It's  no  good,  Long'un.    As  a  medical  man.     .     .     ." 

"You  must.     It's  our  only  chance." 

"I  tell  you,  I  daren't  do  it." 

"Then" — clarity  of  inspiration  came  to  Dicky's  tired 
mind — "it's  good-bye  to  all  hope  of  our  finding  the  drug." 

"I  tell  you,"  began  Beamish  obstinately — and  stopped. 
The  drug!  Suddenly  he  re-lived  his  dream.  Room,  friends, 
his  patient,  vanished.  Melie  lay  before  him — Melie,  white 
and  rounded  on  a  purple  cloud.  He  heard  the  music  of 
Melie's  reed-pipe.  "Evolution,"  whispered  the  music,  "out 
of  death,  life — and  for  you,  fame!  .  .  ." 

He  was  bending  over  his  patient :  he  saw  the  hypodermic 
needle  glide  home  through  pinched  flesh,  watched  glass 
cylinder  empty  as  his  thumb  pressed  down  the  plunger. 


"I  cannot  die,"  said  the  soul  of  Tomasso  Negrini.  "I  am 
immortal.  I  live  on  always,  lord  of  myself,  lord  of  creation. 
That  is  Genoa  below  me.  How  blue  the  sea  curves  to  her 
harbour-masts;  how  white  the  Campo  Santo  lies — there 
behind  the  hill.  And  the  Via  Pellegrino,  where  my  body 
played  as  a  child,  still  climbs  skyward  from  the  great  Square. 
I  can  see  the  very  house  where  my  mother  gave  birth  to 
me.  ...  I  am  lord  of  creation:  east  I  fly,  and  west. 
Nothing  hinders  me.  .  .  .  They  are  celebrating  the 
Bow  Feast  in  City  Bu-ro.  There  is  Su-rah,  watching  from 
her  yamen- window.  How  the  shafts  sing.  Su-rah  is  pleased : 
she  gloats  at  the  sight  of  blood.  .  .  .  Indo-China  lies 
like  an  island  below  me.  I  am  lord  of  Indo-China.  I  have 
got  me  the  Flower.  I  have  driven  the  Frenchmen  from 
Indo-China.  ...  It  is  lonely  to  be  the  lord  of 
creation.  ...  I  would  that  I  could  find  my  body  once 
again.  .  .  .  They  are  hurting  my  body.  ...  0 
mamma  mia,  they  are  hurting  your  child's  body.  .  .  . 
Look,  mamma  mia,  it  is  no  longer  your  child's  body :  it  is  the 


CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMS  77 

body  of  an  old  man.     Look,  mamma  mia,  down  there  through 
the  smoke." 

And  the  soul  of  Tomasso  Negrini  dived  downwards,  as  the 
arrow  dives,  into  that  abode  of  pain  which  was  its  body. 


"Quick!" — it  was  Beamish  speaking — "lift  him  up. 
Make  him  walk  somehow.  Do  you  understand  me?  He 
must  be  kept  walking." 

The  Long'un  stooped  over  Negrini's  prostrate  body,  slung 
an  arm  round  the  shoulders,  jerked  it  to  its  feet. 

"Cosa?"  panted  Negrini.  Face  and  lips  were  livid,  skin 
deathly  cold;  perspiration  poured  from  him;  his  mouth 
twitched  as  though  he  suffocated.  Beamish  gripped  one  of 
the  emaciated  arms,  rammed  hypodermic  home,  gave  another 
injection. 

"Make  him  walk,  Long'un.  Don't  let  him  lie  down  again. 
Damn  it,  why  isn't  the  man  vomiting?  I've  given  him 
enough  apomorphine  to  make  an  elephant  sick." 

The  doctor  seized  a  rag  which  had  been  used  for  cleaning 
the  opium-pipe,  began  flicking  it  at  his  patient's  cheeks. 
"Keep  him  moving."  Up  and  down,  grotesquely  as  a  puppet 
on  a  string,  Beamish  flapping  madly  at  its  face,  the  body  of 
Negrini  danced  in  the  Long'un 's  arms;  up  and  down, 
boots — hanging  loose  from  loose  limbs — clip-clopping  insen- 
sate jazz-time  on  the  matting.  .  .  . 

A  little  colour  came  back  to  the  lips;  cold  skin  warmed; 
breath  drew  more  regularly. 

"Cosa/"  he  panted  again;  and  then,  suddenly,  low 
as  the  scream  of  a  whipped  child.  "It  hurts.  God!  it 
hurts." 

"What  does  he  say?"  interrupted  de  Gys,  pistol  still 
pointed  at  the  silk  hangings.  They  were  twitching  again, 
twitching  violently. 

"He  says  I'm  hurting  him." 

"Don't  stop,  Long'un.  Keep  him  on  the  go  while  I  get 
some  more  juice,"  called  Beamish,  as  he  stooped  to  the 
medicine  satchel. 


78  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"It  hurts!  God!  it  hurts!"  screamed  the  hideous  dancing 
face. 

Came  an  answering  scream  from  behind  the  hangings,  a 
tearing  of  silk.  Hair  dishevelled,  eyes  mad  with  fear, 
breasts  bared,  the  Chinese  girl  fell  forward  into  the 
room. 

De  Gys  covered  her;  but  she  took  no  notice  of  the  pistol, 
only  crawled  to  him,  wriggling  forward,  snake-like,  on  knees 
and  elbows. 

"Do  not  torture  him,  great  ones.  Oh,  I  pray  you  do  not 
torture  him  any  more."  She  lay,  breasts  crushed  against 
the  matting,  head  low,  palms  upraised  in  supplication. 

"We  are  white  men:  we  do  not  torture."  De  Gys  spoke 
gruffly.  "Your  master  is  ill.  The  white  doctor  cures 
him." 

"Ai-yee,  ai-yee,  ai-yee!"    The  girl  moaned  at  his  feet. 

"Be  silent,  I  say."  Moaning  died  away  to  the  faintest 
whine,  the  whine  of  a  stricken  cat. 

"It  hurts.  It  hurts.  It  hurts."  Negrini's  legs  stiffened 
suddenly,  began  to  support  his  body.  Ruthlessly,  the 
Long'un  propelled  him  forward,  forcing  him  to  walk.  "It 
hurts,  signore.  Leave  me  alone.  Leave  me  alone.  Leave 
me  alone,  for  the  love  of  God."  They  staggered  across  the 
room  together,  staggered  back  to  Beamish. 

"Hold  up  his  arm,  Long'un."  Again  the  doctor's  needle 
spurted  its  drug  under  the  pinched  flesh.  "I  ought  to  have 
some  coffee — strong  coffee.  Make  that  girl  get  it."  De 
Gys  translated,  and  Wu  Hon  slipped  noiselessly  away. 
"Now,  carry  on.  Whatever  you  do,  don't  let  him  stop 
walking." 

"And  if  he  screams  again,  put  your  hand  over  his  mouth," 
barked  de  Gys.  .  .  . 

"There  are  three  great  foreign  devils,  and  they  carry 
guns,"  gasped  Wu  Hon.  "One  of  them  has  the  master 
by  the  shoulders,  jumping  him  up  and  down;  another  sticks 
needles  into  his  arm.  He  of  the  beard  orders  to  bring 
coffee." 

"Take  it  to  them."    Si-tuk,  eyes  glued  to  the  door-crack, 


CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMS  79 

spoke  in  a  whisper.  "They  try  to  cure  him  of  the  poppy- 
poison.  Let  them  cure  him  of  the  poppy-poison  if  they  can: 
they  will  not  cure  the  black  bane  of  Su-rah.  To-night 
N'ging  goes  to  his  ancestors." 

"Can  you  not  kill  the  foreign  devils?" 

"Assuredly.  But  first  I  would  know  what  they  want  of 
the  master.  Listen  carefully  to  their  words." 

"I  cannot  understand  their  words.  The  master  speaks  a 
strange  language." 

When  Wu  Hon  came  back,  bearing  steaming  pot  and  four 
cups  on  a  chased  silver  tray,  her  master  was  lying  pillow- 
supported  across  three  stools.  Above  him  bent  the  foreign 
devils.  The  smallest  foreign  devil  held  a  great  squirt  in 
his  hand:  he  took  the  coffee  from  her,  poured  it  into  the 
squirt. 

"Turn  him  over,  Long'un,"  ordered  Beamish.  "This  is 
the  last  chance." 

De  Gys  waved  the  congal  from  the  room.  "Friend 
Smith,  I  do  not  speak  the  Italian.  If  he  comes-to  .  .  ." 

"If  he  comes-to,  leave  the  questioning  to  me,"  said  the 
Long'un — and  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  thing  Beamish 
was  doing. 


Atropine,  apomorphine,  and  the  last  injection  of  coffee  had 
done  their  work.  Propped  upright  against  the  wall,  pale  and 
twitching,  Negrini  faced  his  inquisitors. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me — what  do  you  want  of  me?" 
Approaching  death  had  sloughed  the  mask  of  Orientalism 
from  him:  he  used  the  harsh  jargon  of  his  native  town, 
mouthed  it  humbly  as  a  beggar. 

"You  have  told  us,"  Dicky's  lips  framed  the  unaccustomed 
diphthongs  awkwardly,  "of  the  Flower — dello  Fiore.  Tell  us 
now  of  the  Flower  Folk — of  il  popolo  dello  Fiore.  Where  do 
they  live,  these  people?" 

"Vivono,  they  live" — thought  could  hardly  frame  itself 
into  words — "but  I  told  that  to  the  Frenchman,  signore. 
Southwards  from  Mt.  Theng,  seventeen  days'  journey: 


80  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

between  Hua  Pahn  and  the  Ha  Tang  hoc.  And  from  City 
Bu-ro,  ten  days;  through  Pittising's  country,  past  the 
temple  of  Ko-nan  and  Quivering  Stone." 

"Are  they  white,  these  Flower  Folk?" 

"White?  Yes— at  least  Melie  said  that  they  were  all 
white.  But  I  do  not  know,  signore.  How  should  I  know? 
I  only  know  that  Melie  and  Lucien  came  from  the  country 
of  the  Flower  to  City  Bu-ro,  that  the  woman  Su-rah.  .  .  ." 

"Ask  him  if  they  are  French?"  whispered  de  Gys. 

Dicky  repeated  the  question;  but  the  dying  man  only 
shook  his  head.  "I  do  not  know,  signore.  I  swear  to  you 
I  do  not  know.  It  was  the  Flower  I  wanted — not  the  people 
of  the  Flower.  And  I  gave  Kun-mer  ten  thousand  piastres, 
signore:  ten  thousand  piastres  in  sycee  silver.  But  he 
would  not  send  Them  of  the  Bow  to  Quivering  Stone." 

De  Gys  bristled  as  a  terrier  at  a  rat-hole.  "Make  him  tell 
us  more,  mon  vieux.  Make  him  tell  us.  .  .  ." 

"Laissez  faire  /"  said  the  Long  'un,  and  turned  to  Negrini. 

"This  flower  has  it  purple  seeds?" 

"Yes,  signore." 

"Who  gave  you  this  flower — was  it  Melie?" 

"No,  signore.     Lucien  gave  me  the  Flower." 

"You  killed  Lucien  for  the  Flower?" 

"Yes,  signore." 

"Why  did  you  want  the  Flower?  Was  it  to  sell  for 
money?" 

"Yes,  signore." 

"Does  Si-tuk  the  dwarf  know  about  the  Flower?" 

Again  the  pale,  twitching  face  shook  in  denial. 

"But  you  said  that  Si-tuk  could  show  us  the  way  to  The 
Gates.  What  Gates?" 

"The  Gates  of  Harinesia."  Negrini's  smoke-reddened 
eyes  veiled  themselves  cunningly  under  scant  lashes. 

"Signore,  I  am  only  a  poor  man.  We  are  all  poor,  we 
Italians.  Povere  bestie,  signore."  His  mind  wandered; 
he  was  a  child  again,  a  little  dirty  child  begging  for  money 
in  the  streets  of  Genoa.  "Un  soldo,  signore:  damme  un 
soldo:  ho  fame,  signore" 


CYPRIAN  BEAMISH  DREAMS  81 

"Senta" — the  Long'un's  eyes  held  their  man — "if  you 
tell  us  the  way  to  the  country  of  the  Flower  you  shall  be  well 
paid.  Ten  thousand  lire:  twenty  thousand  lire." 

"It  is  worth  more."  Negrini's  failing  brain  groped  back 
to  realities.  "It  is  worth  milioni.  But  I  do  not  ask 
milioni.  What  is  money  to  a  dying  man?  Also,  it  is  my 
secret,  mine  only.  The  Tong  has  no  share  in  the  Flower,  only 
in  the  black  smoke." 

"Which  Tong?"  prompted  de  Gys. 

"The  Tong  of  the  White  Tiger.  .  .  .  Bend  close, 
Inglese" — words  came  fainter — "will  you  swear  an  oath,  a 
solemn  oath  to  one  who  is  dying?" 

"Yes."  The  Long'un,  eyes  still  holding  their  man, 
nodded  assent. 

"Then  swear  that  you  send  my  body  home  to  Italy — to 
Genoa;  that  you  will  have  it  buried  in  the  Campo  Santo. 
Swear  that  you  will  search  out  my  brother  and  my  little 
sister;  that  you  will  tell  them  I  died  honourably.  Swear 
also,  that  if  they  are  in  need,  you  will  relieve  their  needs." 

"All  these  things  shall  be  done,  Negrini." 

"It  is  good.  I  will  show  you  the  way  to  the  Flower.  Tell 
the  Frenchman  to  summon  Si-tuk;  but  quickly,  quickly, 
or  death  wins." 

De  Gys,  understanding  by  instinct,  sprang  for  the  door, 
wrenched  it  open.  "Si-tuk!  Si-tuk!  His  Excellency  calls 
for  you." 

"I  come."  The  dwarf  shuffled  across  the  floor,  dropped 
on  his  knees  before  Negrini.  Beamish,  one  hand  on  his 
patient's  heart,  knew  the  end  very  close;  knew,  in  his  own 
heart,  the  first  twinge  of  remorse.  "  I  oughtn't  to  have  done 
it,"  thought  Beamish,  "I  really  oughtn't  to  have  done  it." 

But  in  Dicky's  heart  was  no  remorse:  only  fear  lest 
Negrini  should  even  yet  trick  them.  Negrini  was  speaking 
in  Chinese,  giving  some  order  to  the  hideous  creature  at 
his  side.  The  whining  syllables  maddened  Dicky.  Twice  he 
heard  de  Gys  interrupt:  twice  Negrini  repeated  the  same 
sounds.  The  Long'un  questioned  de  Gys  with  his  eyes;  read, 
in  answer,  a  puzzled,  doubtful  affirmative.  Suddenly  the 


82  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

dwarf  raised  one  yellow  paw,  as  if  in  token  of  understanding 
and  obedience.     Negrini  stopped  speaking  Chinese. 

"I  have  told  him" — words  rattled  in  the  shrunken  throat — 
"told  him."  No  more  words  came,  only  the  gasp  and  gurgle 
of  death. 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTH 

Ideographed  rice-paper 

MY  FRIENDS,"  said  Rene  de  Gys,  "we  are  in  very 
deep  water." 
They  had  returned  from  Cholon,  and  were  sitting 
— Phu-nan  on  guard  outside  locked  door — in  de  Gys'  bed- 
room :   Dicky  and  the  Frenchman  at  the  table,  on  which  lay 
a  large-scale  map  of  Indo-China;  Beamish,  broody  and  self- 
centred,  on  the  bed. 

"Very  deep  water,"  repeated  the  Frenchman. 

Dicky  looked  up  inquiringly  from  the  map.  Since  leaving 
Pu-yi's  house  de  Gys  had  kept  his  own  counsel;  had  break- 
fasted alone,  slept  three  hours,  hired  a  rickshaw,  and  dis- 
appeared for  the  afternoon.  It  was  now  five  o'clock. 

" Explain,"  said  Dicky.  "  What  did  Negrini  say  to  Si-tuk? 
Why  did  you  make  us  leave  the  house  so  suddenly?  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

De  Gys  answered  the  last  question  first:  "I  have  been 
consulting  a  friend,  an  official.  He  says  we  can  expect  no 
help  from  the  Governor.  The  Governor  does  not  see  his 
way.  .  .  .  Pah,  you  know  what  our  French  officials  are. 
Very  Mandarins!  When  they  are  not  corrupt,  they  are 
frightened:  when  they  are  not  frightened,  they  are  in- 
competent. Besides,  if  what  Negrini  told  us  about  the 
opium  be  true — and  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  that  part  of 
the  story — the  Tong  of  the  White  Tiger  would  have  the 
three  of  us  murdered  long  before  any  expedition  could  be 
got  ready." 

"And  which  part  of  that  peculiar  animal,  the  white  tiger," 
drawled  Dicky,  "is  his  Tong?" 

The  Frenchman  frowned  down  the  attempted  jest.     "You 

83 


84  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

laugE  at  serious  things,  my  friend.  Every  Chinaman  belongs 
to  some  Tong  or  other.  The  Tong  is  his  club,  his  guild,  his 
Lodge,  his  secret-society.  The  Tong" — he  paused  signifi- 
cantly, and  added,  "  Doctor,  would  you  mind  looking  out  of 
the  window!" 

Beamish,  somewhat  puzzled,  got  up  from  the  bed;  peered 
across  the  Square. 

"Any  Chinamen  about,  doctor?" 

"Only  one  that  I  can  see." 

"Take  my  little  telescope — it's  hanging  on  the  wall  just  at 
your  left.  Examine  the  man  carefully." 

Said  Beamish,  having  adjusted  the  focus,  "I  don't  believe 
it  is  a  man.  It  looks  more  like  a  woman.  By  Jove!  it's 
the  girl  who  made  the  coffee  for  us." 

"Thank  you,  doctor."  De  Gys  spoke  very  gravely. 
"That  is  just  what  I  expected.  They  do  not  intend  to  lose 
sight  of  us." 

The  Long'un  fidgeted  in  his  chair.  "Confound  the  girl. 
What  does  she  mean  by  watching  us?  For  two  pins  I'd  send 
See-Sim  after  her." 

"Don't  do  that,  mon  vieux.  Servants  like  See-Sim  are 
rare.  Besides,  the  girl  is  quite  within  her  rights." 

"De  Gys,  for  goodness  sake  don't  beat  about  the  bush." 

"I  begin  at  the  beginning,"  said  the  Frenchman,  obviously 
ill  at  ease.  "What  have  we  discovered  so  far?  Firstly,  we 
have  found  the  nameless  man;  secondly,  we  know  that  he 
killed  Lucien;  thirdly,  we  know" — anger  throbbed  under 
the  reasoning  voice — "that  he  swore  to  torture  Melie  if  she 
revealed  the  secret.  But  the  secret  Negrini  guarded  was  not 
our  secret:  Negrini  only  wanted  the  Flower."  He  paused. 
"Shall  we  three  risk  our  lives  for  the  sake  of  a  drug?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Beamish,  stubbornly — memory  of  the 
thing  he  had  done  still  weighing  on  his  mind.  "We  have  set 
our  hands  to  the  plough.  . 

"There  is  still  time  to  draw  back,"  said  de  Gys.  "Hear 
me  out  before  you  decide.  Negrini  was  an  opium  smuggler 
and  a  member  of  the  *  White  Tiger' — that  much  is  certain, 
all  the  rest  mere  conjecture.  This  Harmesia  of  which  he  told 


IDEOGRAPHED  RICE-PAPER  85 

us  may  be  a  dream — an  illusion  of  the  black  smoke.  The 
Flower.  .  .  ." 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  Flower,"  cut  in  Beamish. 
"That,  we  have  ourselves  tasted;  and  remember,  he  admitted 
it  had  purple  seeds." 

"Indo-China  is  full  of  strange  drugs,  doctor." 

"Mon  ami" — the  Long'un's  cool  voice  interrupted  their 
wrangle — "answer  me  two  questions.  Is  it  your  wish  that 
we  abandon  this  adventure?  If  so,  why?" 

The  Frenchman  hesitated.  "You  do  not  know  the  dan- 
gers, friend  Smith.  It  is  not  right  that  I  .  .  ." 

"Dangers!"  Dicky  laughed.  "What  dangers?  Are  we 
to  be  frightened  because  a  yellow  girl  watches  our  windows?" 

De  Gys  said,  and  there  was  no  laughter  in  his  voice:  "If 
she  watches  for  the  White  Tiger,  yes!  Listen.  When  you 
swore  that  oath  to  Tomasso  Negrini — or  rather  to  N'ging 
the  Chinaman — you  made  yourself  responsible  for  the  dis- 
posal of  his  body.  There  is  no  promise  more  sacred.  Do  you 
follow  me  so  far?" 

"Perfectly.     I  made  a  promise,  and  I  shall  keep  it." 

"Eh  bien,  Negrini  told  Si-tuk  of  that  oath,  and  the  Tong 
of  the  White  Tiger,  Negrini's  Tong,  will  make  certain  that 
you  carry  it  out.  The  body  will  be  embalmed — they  are 
probably  at  it  now — and  placed  in  a  sealed  coffin.  You 
will  be  expected  to  do  the  rest.  If  you  don't 

"I  gave  him  my  word,"  put  in  Dicky.  "That  ought  to  be 
good  enough." 

"There  is  a  Chinese  proverb  that  'the  fear  of  death  is  the 
beginning  of  discipline'.  The  Tong  are  not  taking  any 
chances,  mon  vieux." 

"Confound  the  Tong.  What  about  Negrini's  oath  to  me? 
He  promised  to  show  us  the  way  to  the  Flower.  What  did 
Negrini  say  to  the  dwarf,  de  Gys?" 

Purposely,  as  it  seemed  to  Dicky,  the  Frenchman  dis- 
regarded the  final  query.  "The  Italian  kept  faith — in  the 
Italian  way.  Look ! "  He  drew  a  thick  sheet  of  ideographed 
rice-paper  from  his  pocket.  "Phu-nan  found  this  under  my 
door."  He  read  slowly :  " Only  the  White  Tiger  knows  the 


86  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

road  to  yellow-island-country  and  City  Bu-ro.  Only 
those  who  are  faithful  to  their  oath,  and  to  the  oath  of 
the  White  Tiger,  may  proceed.  He  will  be  abroad  to- 
night, in  the  house  of  the  dead,  at  the  third  hour  of  the 
moon." 

"And  what  the  devil  doesall  that  mean? "said  theLong'un. 

"Practically  this" — de  Gys  hesitated  again  before  he 
spoke — "that  if  we  want  to  get  to  City  Bu-ro  we  must  join 
the  Tong.  They  will  tell  us  on  what  terms,  if  we  meet  them 
to-night,  in  the  house  where  N'ging  died,  at  about  half -past 
ten." 

"Very  well,  then,  let's  go." 

"One  moment,  my  friends" — the  Frenchman  signalled  to 
the  doctor,  who  joined  them  at  the  table.  "  Before  you  make 
up  your  minds — and  I  beg  you  not  to  underrate  the  serious- 
ness of  this  first  step — let  us  see  exactly  where  we  stand."  He 
pointed  a  finger  at  the  map,  indicated  on  the  twentieth 
parallel  of  latitude  the  great  bend  of  the  Mekong  River 
where  it  veers  west  and  north  from  Vien-Chan  to  Luang- 
prabang.  "Here  is  Mount  Theng.  The  Muong  Sip  song 
chau  thais — the  country  of  the  twelve  thais  cantons — lies 
here,  just  to  the  south.  Below  that  you  will  see  Hua  Pahn 
and  the  Ha  Tang  Hoc.  Now,  according  to  Negrini's  story, 
there  is  a  thirteenth  canton — this  yellow-island-country  of 
which  the  Tong's  letter  speaks,  and  it  lies  seventeen  days 
south  of  Mt.  Theng:  about  here,  shall  we  say.  Beyond 
that — ten  days'  journey  according  to  Negrini — live  the 
Flower  Folk.  My  friends,  I  tell  you  frankly — I  who  know 
this  Indo-China  better  than  most  men — that  I  am  very 
doubtful  of  the  whole  tale." 

He  broke  off  to  watch  the  effect  on  his  companions. 
"What  do  you  think,  Long'un?"  said  Beamish. 

"  I  think,"  Dicky  never  batted  an  eyelid,  "  that  it  promises 
to  be  a  very  interesting  trip.  Continues,  mon  ami  /" 

"For  three  white  men" — de  Gys  accentuated  the  ad- 
jective— "it  would  undoubtedly  be  interesting.  For  three 
yellow  men  it  might  be  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  In 
addition  to  which,  you  forget  that  I  am  a  French  officer;  and 


IDEOGRAPHED  RICE-PAPER  87 

that  opium-smuggling  would  not  increase  my  chances  for 
promotion." 

"I  don't  follow,"  began  Beamish. 

"Because  you  do  not  know  the  workings  of  the  Chinese 
mind,  doctor.  I,  unfortunately,  or  perhaps  fortunately,  do 
understand  them.  Listen — for  the  Tong  of  the  White 
Tiger,  the  position  is  one  of  admirable  simplicity.  N'ging — 
as  I  see  this  business — was  the  Tong's  working  partner. 
They,  whoever  they  are,  used  to  provide  the  capital,  silver, 
or  merchandise:  N'ging  traded  it  somewhere  or  other  for 
opium,  which  he  afterwards  smuggled  across  the  frontier. 
To  get  to  Harinesia,  or  wherever  N'ging  went  for  his  sup- 
plies, we  must  take  N'ging's  place.  We,  too,  must  go 
yellow." 

"Damn  it,"  interrupted  Dicky,  "they  can't  expect  three 
Europeans  to  smuggle  their  drugs  for  them.  Wliat's  the 
sense.  .  .  ." 

"They  not  only  expect  it" — de  Gys  spoke  very  solemnly — 
"they  are  almost  certain  of  it.  Otherwise,  they  would  not 
have  written." 

"But  why?" 

"Why!"  De  Gys  shrugged  huge  shoulders  in  sign  of 
decision  taken.  "Why!  Because  of  the  promise  Negrini 
made  you.  You  asked  me  just  now  what  he  said  to  Si-tuk. 
These  were  his  exact  words.  Remember  I  made  him  repeat 
them.  'In  return  for  the  oath  sworn  I  give  to  these  three 
foreign  devils  my  place  among  the  cubs  of  the  White  Tiger. 
See  to  it  that  the  word  is  passed.'  Si-tuk  has  passed  the 
word;  and  at  to-night's  meeting  we  shall  be  offered  our 
choice:  to  take  over  N'ging's  duties,  smuggling  included — 
or  to  give  up  all  idea  of  getting  to  Harinesia.  Now  do  you 
understand?" 

Silently,  the  two  Englishmen  looked  at  their  friend's  stern, 
unhappy  face. 

Then, "  Supposing  we  refuse  the  offer,"  queried  the  Long'un, 
"supposing  we  try  to  find  this  place  on  our  own?" 

De  Gys  lifted  his  beard,  and  drew  one  hand  eloquently 
across  stretched  throat. 


88  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Couldn't  your  police  arrest  them  to-night?"  This  from 
Beamish. 

"On  what  grounds?  And  even  arrested,  they  would  not 
speak.  No,  my  friends,  do  not  let  us  delude  ourselves. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  yellow-island-country — if  yellow- 
island-country  exists:  and  that  is  the  way  Negrini  took. 
The  final  decision  rests  with  you.  Before  you  make  it  let 
me  warn  you  once  again:  the  journey  will  be  a  journey  of 
months;  we  shall  travel  as  yellow  men,  our  flag  will  be  no 
protection,  our  prestige  of  no  value;  we  shall  not  be  able  to 
ask  help  of  a  single  white  soul.  On  the  contrary,  every 
official's  hand  will  be  against  us.  The  country  of  the  twelve 
cantons  is  utterly  uncivilized,  virgin  jungle  for  the  most  part, 
fever-stricken  in  the  valleys,  bitter-cold  among  the  moun- 
tains. And  at  the  end  of  our  journey,  as  likely  as  not,  we 
shall  find  that  the  thirteenth  canton  is  a  myth,  that  the 
Flower  Folk  do  not  exist,  that  the  woman  Su-rah.  .  . 

"De  Gys" — once  more  the  Long'un's  cool  tones  inter- 
rupted— "you  have  not  yet  answered  my  question.  Is  it 
your  wish  that  we  abandon  this  adventure?" 

"It  is  my  duty  to  warn  you,"  began  the  Frenchman. 

"And  you  have  warned  us,  mon  vieux.  Therefore" — the 
slim  figure  rose  suddenly  to  full  height,  towered  over  the  pair 
at  the  table — "let  us  hear  no  more  of  it.  As  for  me,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind.  And  you,  Beamish?" 

"I?" — Beamish,  dull  eyes  kindling,  looked  at  the  map — 
"Of  course,  I'm  going." 

De  Gys,  with  a  half-humorous  gesture  of  despair, 
stretched  out  both  huge  hands.  "You  are  fools,"  said  de 
Gys,  "fools  of  an  enormous  foolishness,  but  I  think,  I 
think.  .  .  ."  He  choked  over  the  words;  and  Dicky, 
who  knew  the  man  of  old,  could  see  that  he  was  in  the  grip  of 
an  emotion  too  big  for  speech. 

"What  do  you  think,  friend?" 

"I  think" — the  red-brown  eyes  seemed  very  close  to 
tears — "that  without  you  two  it  would  have  been  a  very 
lonely  journey.  Let  us  go  down  to  dinner,  mes  amis." 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTH 

The  Tong  of  the  White  Tiger 

DINNER  was  a  very  silent  meal.  Occasionally  de 
Gys  broke  reverie  with  a  meaningless  jest;  twice  the 
Long'un  asked  questions  about  the  peaceful  pene- 
tration of  Chinese  traders  into  Cambodia;  once  Beamish 
referred  casually  to  the  night's  rendezvous,  but  for  the  rest 
each  man  busied  himself  with  thought. 

Alone  of  the  party,  Beamish  cherished  neither  doubts  nor 
disquietudes.  Beamish  had  already  crossed  his  Rubicon, 
had  violated  the  only  conventional  code  he  acknowledged — 
professional  etiquette.  That  breach  still  rankled. 

Yet  after  all  (argued  the  doctor)  anyone  else  in  my  position 
would  have  acted  similarly:  one  man's  life — and  really  I 
don't  admit  that  I  did  take  his  life — I  couldn't  possibly  have 
saved  him — is  a  very  small  price  to  pay  for  human  happiness. 
Besides  (self-deception  completed  the  vicious  circle)  it  isn't 
as  if  I  had  been  swayed  by  personal  motives.  Of  course,  if 
fame  comes  to  me  through  this  marvellous  drug,  I  must 
accept  it,  but  I  don't  want  fame,  or  money,  or  honours — I 
only  want  to  do  my  share  towards  making  other  people's 
lives  more  beautiful. 

Having  settled  this  question  of  conscience  to  his  own  com- 
plete satisfaction,  Cyprian  Beamish  eyed  the  immediate 
future  without  a  qualm.  Confident  in  the  kinship  of  all 
human  beings,  priding  himself  on  his  lack  of  race-prejudice, 
certain  that — whatever  less  exalted  motives  might  be  at 
work  in  the  minds  of  his  companions — his  own  at  least  were 
purely  unselfish,  he  looked  forward,  fearless  and  undoubting, 
to  the  interview  with  his  "  Chinese  brothers."  " They,  too," 
mused  Beamish,  "will  play  their  part  in  my  great  discovery." 


90  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

None  of  which  sentiments — had  Beamish  voiced  them — 
would  have  caused  much  surprise  to  the  Long'un. 

For  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith,  after  more 
than  six  months  of  unadulterated  Beamish,  had  acquired  a 
considerable  insight  into  the  workings  of  his  friend's  men- 
tality. The  doc  (decided  Dicky,  scrutinizing  him  covertly 
across  the  table)  will  stick  at  nothing  to  get  that  drug,  the 
doc,  like  most  Socialists,  is  a  Jesuit;  the  doc  is  the  sort  of 
chap  who  used  to  grill  one  man's  body  on  the  off-chance  of 
saving ^ another  man's  soul.  And  the  worst  of  these  hard- 
shell idealists  is  that  they  think  they're  the  only  reasonable 
beings  on  the  planet.  Now  I  ...  Thought  veered  to 
the  personal. 

Dicky — as  he  admitted  to  himself  over  an  exquisitely 
cooked  sweet-bread — felt  thoroughly  uncertain,  thoroughly 
uncomfortable  about  the  whole  business.  It  was  just  eight 
days  since  they  had  met  de  Gys  and  Melie,  barely  twenty-four 
hours  since  their  arrival  in  Cochin-China.  In  that  brief 
space  of  time  they  had  been  jerked — literally  jerked — from 
a  placid  pleasure  trip  into. 

Into  what?  Sceptically,  he  summarized  the  incidents: 
tiffin  at  Singapore,  Melie's  death,  the  taking  of  the  drug,  de 
Gys'  story  of  the  white  women  beyond  the  mountains,  their 
journey  to  Saigon,  Mother  Mathurin  ("crafty  old  hag"  mused 
the  Long'un,  "She  must  have  known  Negrini  was  dying"), 
the  house  of  Pu-yi,  Si-tuk  the  dwarf,  N'ging's  admissions, 
N'ging's  death,  the  letter  from  the  Tong. 

And  in  two  hours  (added  imagination)  as  likely  as  not  we 
shall  find  out  that  nine-tenths  of  N'ging's  story  was  bluff,  and 
be  quietly  murdered  by  a  lot  of  stinking  yellow  devils  who 
make  their  money  by  smuggling  dope  from  the  Muong  Sip 
song  chau  thais  (which  sounds  more  like  a  Chinese  version 
of  the  "old  Suwannee  River"  than  a  country  nearly  as  big 
as  England)  into  Yunnan.  Oh,  hell! 

Cerises  flambees  and  a  liqueur  brandy  brought  a  little 
certainty,  but  no  comfort.  N'ging's  admissions  about 
Harinesia — allowing  always  for  Oriental  imagery  and  the 
Latin  imagination — were  not  absolutely  improbable:  the 


THE  TONG  OF  THE  WHITE  TIGER  91 

Flower  Folk  might  exist,  might  even  be  white.  To  find 
them,  whoever  they  might  be,  would  undoubtedly  prove 
worth  while.  But  surely  that  was  a  job  for  Government 
House:  Government  House  ought  to  order  out  a  flying 
column,  a  couple  of  pom-poms,  a  mountain-battery — not 
leave  the  search  to  individuals.  And  if  the  Flower  Folk 
really  were  French,  really  were  descendants  of  the  original 
filibusters  who  re-took  Annam  for  Canh  Dzue  in  ninety- 
eight.  .  .  . 

"But  that's  impossible"  (concluded  Dicky),  "absolutely 
impossible." 

Meanwhile,  de  Gys  applied  himself  characteristically  to 
close  reasoning.  Like  most  of  his  race,  he  inclined  to  be 
boastful  before  battle;  but  battle  once  joined,  took  no 
chances. 

And  the  sum  of  de  Guy's  reasoning  was  this:  "It  seems 
clear  that  Harinesia  exists.  Therefore,  at  all  costs,  we  must 
get  to  Harinesia.  The  thing's  bigrement  dangerous;  but 
they'll  hardly  dare  murder  us  to-night.  If  murder's  their 
game,  yellow-island-country  is  the  place  they'll  choose  for  it. 
Bon !  Let  us  admit  we  get  as  far  as  yellow-island-country. 
What  then !  Somehow  or  other,  we  must  establish  relations 
with  the  Flower  Folk. 

"The  Flower  Folk  should  be  fairly  numerous  by  now,  they 
must  have  some  kind  of  weapons  or  the  Harinesians  would 
have  wiped  them  out  long  ago.  Guns  perhaps,  otherwise 
why  was  Kun-mer  (whoever  Kun-mer  may  be)  afraid  to 
send  Them  of  the  Bow  to  Quivering  Stone.  .  .  .  Encore 
Bon  !  Once  in  Harinesia,  we  three  will  defy  the  Tong,  put 
ourselves  at  the  head  of  the  Flower  Folk,  lead  them  back 
to  civilization.  That,  I  think,  would  not  displease  my  little 
Melie,  my  poor  little  Melie.  Comme  elle  Stait  adorable, 
comme  je  I'adorais!" 

The  Frenchman,  it  will  be  seen,  differed  from  his  com- 
panions in  this — that  he  did  not  entirely  blind  himself  to 
Melie's  influence  over  their  destiny.  Indeed,  he  admitted  to 
his  mind,  frankly  and  without  subterfuge,  that  the  dead  girl 
not  only  the  guiding-star  of  his  inspiration,  but  the  very 


92  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

keystone  of  that  logical  arch  on  which  all  his  theories  rested. 
For  to  de  Gys,  Melie's  quaint,  old-fashioned  French  and 
Melie's  Marie  Antoinette  snuff-box  seemed  sure  indication 
that  the  Flower  Folk — once  found — would  prove  to  be  none 
other  than  the  femmes  phalangse  of  the  Annamite  legend,  the 
grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren  of  those  aristocrats 
who  sailed  for  Annam  with  Bishop  Pigneaux  de  Behaine  just 
prior  to  the  Revolution. 


Dinner  came  to  an  end  at  last;  and  there  ensued  an  hour 
of  waiting  in  the  empty  Winter  Garden,  which  tested  the 
nerves  of  all  three.  To  enliven  it,  de  Gys  produced  the  snuff- 
box; began  to  re-construct  therefrom,  in  vigorous  rhetoric, 
his  theory  of  the  Flower  Folk.  They  had  been  persecuted 
beyond  all  endurance,  tortured  to  renounce  their  faith, 
harassed,  blackmailed,  spat  upon:  a  remnant  had  taken 
their  arms,  their  women,  their  children,  and  their  scant 
possessions,  fought  their  way  towards  the  coast;  they  had 
been  turned  back  from  the  coast;  they  had  cut  their  way 
inland,  through  Hanoi  and  Son-Tay  and  Hun-Hoa;  they 
had  sought  shelter  in  the  Black  River  country:  they  had 
been  pursued;  they  had  fled  again,  westwards  towards  the 
Mekong,  across  the  jungle-trails,  into  the  mountains  of  the 
twelve  cantons.  "And  there,  my  friends,  there — if  the  good 
God  wills,  we  shall  find  them." 

But  the  Long'un  did  not  listen  very  carefully  to  de  Gys' 
rhetoric,  because  the  Long'un  happened  to  catch  the  look 
in  Beamish 's  eyes  when  they  first  saw  the  eighteenth-century 
bauble.  And  for  that  moment — it  was  only  a  moment,  but 
enough — the  eyes  of  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  had 
been  the  eyes  of  the  dope-fiend  who  sees  his  dope  after  pro- 
longed abstinence! 

The  Long'un  felt  almost  relieved  when  de  Gys  slipped  the 
snuff-box  back  into  his  pocket,  and  pronounced  it  time  to 
depart. 


THE  TONG  OF  THE  WHITE  TIGER  93 

None  of  the  three  carried  weapons  on  that  memorable 
evening:  De  Gys,  wise  to  the  yellow  man,  had  expressly 
forbidden  them  to  do  so.  But  as  they  waited  for  their  car 
on  the  tree-lined  sidewalk  Dicky  began  to  doubt  the  wisdom 
of  that  advice;  would  have  given  much  to  feel  the  comforting 
pressure  of  blued  steel  at  his  hip.  The  Gates  of  Virginia 
had  worn  swords  or  fire-arms  from  seventeen  hundred  till 
well  into  the  eigh teen-seventies;  and  their  descendant's  ego, 
despite  his  British  siring,  could  on  occasions  throw  back  very 
sharply  to  the  maternal  impulse. 

Such  an  occasion  now  presented  itself.  Sub-consciously, 
all  the  old  Southerner  in  Dicky  sensed  impending  colour- 
conflict;  all  the  new  American  in  him  resented  this  idea  of 
trafficking  with  rice-eaters.  Consciously,  he  was  only  aware 
of  danger;  prepared  for  surprise. 

And  surprise  came  before  they  started!  Purposely,  de 
Gys  had  ordered  the  same  open  car  in  which  they  had  been 
driven  on  the  previous  evening,  the  same  chauffeur.  Arrived, 
in  its  stead,  an  ornate  limousine — Lo-pin,  Beamish's  servant, 
grinning  at  the  wheel. 

"What  the  devil!"  ejaculated  Dicky,  but  Lo-pin,  one 
hand  back-stretched  to  open  door,  was  already  explaining 
with  childlike  frankness: 

"  While  masters  dining,  galage  him  send,  say  car  no  can  do, 
no  piecee  dliver.  See-Sim  and  Phu-nan  him  gone  out.  Me 
telephone  galage.  Galage  say  have  piecee  car  but  no  piecee 
dliver,  me  say  Lo-pin  velly  good  dliver,  galage  say  can 
have  piecee  car  if  come  fetch.  Masters  get  in:  Lo-pin  velly 
good  dliver.  Lo-pin  know  placee  dlive  masters." 

"How  do  you  know  where  .  .  ."  began  Beamish;  but 
before  he  could  finish  the  sentence,  de  Gys^  with  a  curt 
"Maskee  I"  (that's  all  right)  to  the  grinning  Lo-pin,  impelled 
both  his  friends  into  the  limousine,  jumped  up  after  them,  and 
slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

Lo-pin  let  his  clutch  slide  home,  and  the  big  car  moved 
noiselessly  from  the  sidewalk. 


94  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

For  a  moment  de  Gys  peered  out  of  the  open  window  at 
the  unlit  fagade  of  the  Opera  House;  then  he  let  down  a 
strapontin,  seated  himself  on  it,  and  turned  to  his  companions. 

"Fine  machine!"  remarked  de  Gys.  A  crystal  bulb 
glowed  in  the  roof.  The  seats  were  upholstered  in  cream 
leather,  the  window-frames  polished  teak,  the  fittings  of 
lustrous  silver;  two  gold  epergnes  held  sprigs  of  odorous 
magnolia.  "Fit  for  a  Bolshevik — or  a  demi-mondaine" 

"Isn't  he  going  the  wrong  way?"  said  a  thoroughly  sus- 
picious Dicky. 

"There  are  two  roads  to  Cholon:  he  takes  the  least  fre- 
quented, through  the  Gardens,  past  the  native  cemetery  and 
the  tomb  of  Bishop  Adran." 

"But  how  does  Lo-Pin  know  where  to  drive?"  Beamish 
resumed  his  interrupted  sentence.  "Lo-pin. 

"Is  obviously  a  member  of  our  Tong,"  completed  de  Gys. 

They  purred,  head-lights  flaring,  through  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes;  switchbacked  a  bridge;  watched  rice-fields  slither 
by ;  streaked  through  a  wood ;  struck  open  country.  Suddenly 
the  electric  lamp  above  their  heads  went  out,  leaving  them 
in  obscurity.  Dicky  tried  to  find  the  switch;  failed;  made  a 
movement  to  put  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

"Don't!"  De  Gys  restrained  him. 

"But  it  may  turn  on  from  the  driving-seat." 

"It  does — and  off.  Leave  the  man  alone,  mon  ami.  He 
only  carries  out  his  orders.  This  is  no  hired  car." 

Silent  and  irritated,  Dicky  watched  the  country  race  by. 
"  Must  be  doing  nearly  fifty,"  he  thought.  The  tumuli  of  the 
graves,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  which  littered  the 
plain,  showed  like  the  bunkers  of  an  enormous  golf-course; 
star-shadow  and  moon-shadow  played  grotesque  hide-and- 
seek  among  their  hollows.  The  night  was  cloudless  but 
sultry;  vague  lightning  flickered  on  the  far  horizon. 

The  tomb  of  Bishop  Adran,  a  shapeless  building  of  gray 
stone,  flashed  past. 

"Are  we  nearly  there?"  asked  Beamish. 

"Ten  minutes  more."  De  Gys  spoke  quietly,  concealing 
his  excitement.  Beamish  wanted  to  ask  more  questions: 


THE  TONG  OF  THE  WHITE  TIGER  95 

"  What  are  we  going  to  tell  them  about  the  Flower?  Shall 
you  make  conditions?  Do  you  think  .  .  ." 

"I  think  we'd  better  let  them  do  the  talking,"  snapped 
Dicky,  and  de  Gys  nodded  approval.  Nothing  more  was 
said  till  they  made  Cholon. 


The  house  of  Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese  was  in  mourning :  bam- 
boo-framed lanterns  of  white  glazed  paper  swung  from  its 
portico,  paper-prayers  and  joss-sticks  burned  in  its  hall. 
Everywhere  hung  quaint  paper  shapes — a  quadrilateral 
horse,  the  silhouette  of  a  dog,  tigers,  junks,  elephants;  from 
an  invisible  court-yard  came  the  intermittent  fizz  and  bang  of 
crackers.  Si-tuk  the  dwarf,  crowned  with  a  white  turban 
which  made  him  look  like  a  malevolent  doll  in  a  baker's  cap, 
met  the  Fan-qui-lo  as  they  stepped  from  their  car;  did  silent 
obeisance;  handed  them  over  to  Wu  Hon,  who  made  signal 
to  follow. 

As  they  pursued  her  white-ribboned  pig-tail  across  the 
hall,  through  an  open  door,  down  a  long  matting-floored 
passage  towards  open  air,  Dicky — last  of  the  party — felt 
his  suspicions  ebbing  away.  The  reception  seemed  alto- 
gether too  formal  for  a  prelude  to  murder! 

"Be  pleased  to  enter  the  humble  garden,"  announced  Wu 
Hon. 

They  found  themselves  under  high  night  in  a  dim  formal 
rockery;  passed  single-file  down  a  gravelled  walk,  lotus- 
studded  water-runnels  on  either  side;  crossed  a  little  bamboo 
bridge;  and  saw,  straight  ahead  of  them,  an  open-fronted 
summer  house. 

Behind  and  above  the  summer  house,  flanking  it  and 
screening  it  from  the  street,  rose  a  huge  wall,  a-top  of  which 
sprawled  and  crawled  an  ungainly  leaden  guttering  cast  in 
the  semblance  of  a  dragon.  In  the  summer  house — perusing, 
by  the  light  of  several  scarlet  lanterns,  three  ivory-rollered 
much-betasselled  parchments — sat  three  motionless  figures. 

"Be  pleased  to  wait  here,"  said  Wu  Hon. 

They  watched  her  enter  the  summer  house,  sink  to  her 


96  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

knees.     The  three  figures  rose  ceremoniously.     Wu  Hon  re- 
turned. 

"You  will  honour  by  following,"  she  said. 

De  Gys,  first  across  the  threshold,  almost  knocked  his 
head  against  the  bamboo  lintel;  lifted  his  topee;  bowed  right, 
left,  and  centre.  Beamish,  with  a  fatuous  smile,  imitated  him. 
The  Long'un,  stooping  of  necessity  four  inches  from  his  full 
height,  contented  himself  with  that  for  salute;  gazed  down, 
soft  hat  under  arm,  on  his  smirking  hosts. 

The  trio  did  not  appear  very  formidable :  one — a  clean- 
shaven short-haired  Chinaman,  dressed  in  silk  clothes  of 
European  fashion — was  obviously  a  subordinate;  the  other 
two,  to  the  Long'un's  untrained  eye,  looked  exactly  alike: 
both  wore  long  loose  robes  blobbed  with  patches  of  brocade, 
white  mourning  turbans,  wide  silk  trousers;  both  had  flat 
Mongolian  noses,  down-curling  moustachios,  projecting  ears. 

Ceremonial  apparently  over,  Wu  Hon  arranged  three 
stools  for  the  visitors,  withdrew.  Ceremonies  continued. 
At  last  de  Gys  sat  down,  and  the  five  followed  his  example. 
Conference  began. 

To  Dicky's  utter  astonishment  he  heard  himself  addressed 
by  his  father's  title,  and  in  perfect  English. 

"Most  honourable  Lord  Furlmere" — the  subordinate 
spoke — "my  employers  wish,  on  behalf  of  their  departed 
comrade,  his  Excellency  N'ging,  to  tender  you  their  sincerest 
thanks  for  the  service  which  you  have  promised.  My 
employers  would  much  like  to  know  if  they  can  in  any  way 
recompense  you  for  your  great  courtesy." 

"Before  we  go  into  that  question" — Dicky  felt  himself  on 
dangerous  ground,  dilly-dallied  accordingly — "I  should  like 
to  know  what  arrangement  your — er — employers  have  made 
for  the  safe-keeping  of  his  Excellency's — er — remains?" 

There  followed  a  short  parley  in  some  Chinese  dialect  which 
even  de  Gys  could  not  fathom.  Obviously,  though,  the 
yellow  men  were  pleased. 

"My  Lord,  all  necessary  arrangements  are  being  carried 
out  with  great  expedition.  Is  it  my  Lord's  wish  that  his 
Excellency's  remains  should  accompany  him  on  his  voyage 


THE  TONG  OF  THE  WHITE  TIGER  97 

to  Europe,  or  would  my  Lord  prefer" — "j'ware  wire"  thought 
Dicky — "to  leave  that  matter  in  our  hands?" 

De  Gys,  who  had  been  listening  all  ears,  whispered  "Si  /", 
but  Dicky  countered: 

"How  can  I  leave  so  important  a  matter  in  the  hands  of 
strangers?  Besides,  there  is  not  only  one  promise." 

"My  Lord  refers  to  the  care  of  his  departed  Excellency's 
relatives." 

"To  that— and  other  matters." 

This  time  the  parley  lasted  several  minutes. 

"Most  honourable  Lord  Furlmere" — the  interpreter's 
question  came  without  warning — "my  employers  would 
much  like  to  know  if  your  Lordship  contemplates  a  long  stay 
in  this  country?" 

"And  may  I  ask" — the  Oxford  drawl  betrayed  no  hint  of 
annoyance — "why  your — er — employers  are  so  interested  in 
my  future  movements?" 

"Because" — suavity  answered  suavity — "in  that  case  my 
employers  would  gladly  relieve  your  Lordship  of  all  save 
financial  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  the  promise  to  his 
departed  Excellency."  Silence  from  Dicky.  "My  em- 
ployers know  a  gentleman,  a  most  reliable  Chinese  gentleman, 
who  has  been  comprador  to  an  English  business-house  in 
Shanghai.  And  he" — the  beady  eyes  twinkled  ever  so 
slightly,  one  raised  hand  signified  the  solution  of  a  problem — 
"has  already  expressed  his  willingness,  for  a  consideration,  a 
very  reasonable  consideration,  to  undertake  this  mournful 
duty." 

Beamish,  irritated  at  the  length  of  these  preliminaries, 
fidgeted  slightly  on  his  stool.  De  Gys,  scenting  trouble 
though  hardly  able  to  follow  the  precise  English,  would  have 
interfered.  But  Dicky  had  now  taken  the  bit  between  his 
teeth.  "Confound  their  politeness,"  thought  Dicky,  "I'll 
show  'em.'  And  he  drawled  without  the  flicker  of  an  eye- 
lash: 

"Is  this  Chinese  gentleman  to  whom  you  have  referred  a 
member  of  the  Tong  of  the  White  Tiger?" 

The  shot  missed  fire  completely.     "I  do  not  quite  follow 


98  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

your  lordship's  question,"  said  the  interpreter.     Dicky  re- 
peated it. 

"There  are,  of  course" — the  moist  lips  admitted — "such 
institutions  as  that  to  which  your  Lordship  refers.  But  your 
Lordship,  if  I  may  say  so,  makes  a  grave  error  if  he  thinks 
that  any  Chinese  gentleman  belongs  to  them.  The  Tong, 
properly  speaking,  is  a  Labour  Federation — an  association  of 
coolies.  Therefore.  .  .  ."  The  sentence  trailed  off  into 
a  suggestive  silence. 

Nonplussed,  the  Long'un  scrutinized  his  three  antagonists. 
"Damn  them,"  he  thought,  "it's  like  talking  to  people  from 
another  planet."  Then  he  remembered  Negrini's  words: 
"Money  is  the  yellow  man's  god." 

"And  how  much" — he  could  have  sworn  that  both  the 
"employers"  understood  those  two  words — "does  the  Chinese 
gentleman  demand?" 

"I  will  ask.  .  .  .  They  say  the  expenses  of  the 
travelling  must  be  paid." 

"Of  course." 

"And  that  there  is  the  question  of  burial-fees,  of  the  priest, 
and  the — Masses,  is  it  not?  Also,  it  is  possible  that  his  de- 
parted Excellency's  relatives  may  be  numerous.  But  before 
we  discuss  these  details" — one  yellow  hand  produced  an 
ivory  roll  of  be-tasselled  parchment — "my  employers  have 
prepared  a  little  agreement,  which  perhaps  your  Lordship  will 
honour  them  by  examining.  It  is,  as  your  Lordship  will  see, 
written  in  four  languages — your  Lordship's,  our  own,  the 
official  language  of  this  colony,  and  that  of  his  departed 
Excellency." 

Long'un  took  the  parchment,  unrolled  it  with  steady 
fingers,  and  began  to  read.  Motionless,  inscrutable,  the 
yellow  faces  watched  him.  De  Gys,  peering  sideways  at  the 
document,  caught  sight  of  the  preliminary  ideograph,  paled 
under  his  beard.  Beamish,  absolutely  out  of  his  depth,  saw 
his  friend's  flat  moustache  quiver;  heard  a  muttered  "Good 
God!"  Then  he,  too,  looked  at  the  brushed  words. 

A  deathly  silence  brooded  over  the  summer  house,  over 
the  men  within  it,  and  the  garden  without.  It  seemed  to 


THE  TONG  OF  THE  WHITE  TIGER  99 

Beamish  that  hours  passed,  that  the  very  stars  stood  still. 
He  wanted  to  protest — but  his  tongue  had  gone  dry,  refused 
to  moisten  his  palate.  He  watched  de  Gys'  beard  wag 
slightly  as  though  in  denial;  watched  the  Long'un's  pupils 
contract  to  pin-points  of  blued  steel.  And  all  the  time  he 
was  aware  of  six  eyes — slitty,  malevolent  eyes — boring  into 
his  brain. 

At  last,  Dicky  spoke:  "And  is  the  signing  of  this — er — 
document  a  necessary  preliminary  to  the — er — business  in 
question?" 

"I  am  afraid,  my  Lord,  that  my  employers  must  in- 
sist .  .  ." 

"Then  will  you,  please9' — only  one  who  had  known  "Colo- 
nel Smith"  on  active  service  could  have  recognized  the  man- 
ner of  that  "please" — "allow  me  and  my  friends  to  discuss 
the  matter  in  private." 

"We  will  allow  you" — the  courtesy  had  gone  out  of  the 
interpreter's  voice — "half  an  hour  in  which  to  make  up  your 
minds." 

The  three  Chinamen  rose  from  their  seats,  bowed  low, 
and  withdrew  into  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  THE  NINTH 

Secret  diplomacy 

FOR  fully  three  minutes  after  the  Chinamen  had  left 
the  summer  house  not  one  of  the  three  Europeans 
uttered  a  word.  They  sat,  craning  forward,  eyes 
glued  to  the  opening  paragraph  of  that  extraordinary  docu- 
ment; till  the  columns  of  brushed  words,  the  ideographs  at 
side  of  them,  began  to  blur  and  dance  in  the  crimson  lantern- 
rays.  Then  the  Long'un  handed  the  thing  over  to  de  Gys, 
towered  up  from  his  seat. 

"This,"  said  the  Long'un,  grimly,  "is  the  ruddy  limit." 

The  Frenchman,  brows  knit,  huge  back  arched,  continued 
silent  study.  Beamish  might  have  been  frozen  to  his  stool. 

They  were  not  frightened:  they  were  not  panicked. 
They  were  beyond  fear,  beyond  panic — petrified.  Certain 
words,  read  and  re-read,  stuck  like  icicles  to  their  brains: 
"Confessing  .  .  .  freely  and  without  compulsion  .  .  .  the 
wilful  murder  ...  of  an  Italian  subject  .  .  .  Signore 
Tomasso  Negrini  ...  of  Genoa  .  .  .  known  also  ...  as 
N'ging." 

The  document  spared  them  nothing.  It  stated,  with  bare, 
brutal  frankness,  how  "the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton 
Smith,  eldest  son  of  the  Lord  Furlmere,  a  peer  of  the  British 
realm,"  assisted  by  two  others — names  and  occupations  were 
given  in  full — had,  on  a  certain  date,  forcefully  broken  into 
the  house  of  one  Pu-yi,  a  Chinese  subject  resident  at  Cholon, 
in  the  French  colony  of  Cochin-China,  and  there  done  to 
death  in  cold  blood  and  by  the  most  revolting  means — Si-tuk 
and  Wu  Hon,  servants  of  Pu-yi  bore  testimony  to  the  abomi- 
nations witnessed,  which,  being  unarmed,  they  had  been 
powerless  to  prevent — Signore  Tomasso  Negrini,  an  Italian, 

100 


SECRET  DIPLOMACY  101 

guest  of  the  said  Pu-yi;  and  Jhqw,_in  view  of  the  fact  that 
suspicion  for  their  crime  might  fall  on  other  m/abcent  parties, 
they  now,  freely  and  under  no  compulsion  whatsoever,  con- 
fessed their  guilt,  "and  have  thereto  set  their  hands  this 
21st  day  of  March,  1920." 
At  that  the  document  ended! 


"But  confound  it!" — somehow  Cyprian  Beamish  found 
his  tongue — "we  didn't  murder  the  fellow.  I'm  ready  to 
swear  he  couldn't  have  lived  twenty-four  hours.  I'd  take 
my  oath  on  that  in  any  Court  of  Law.  .  .  ." 

"Very  well,  then" — the  Long'un  chuckled  coldly — 
"let's  accept  their  terms,  and  rely  on  your  evidence  if 
ever  we're  arrested  for  murder.  You  don't  mind  signing,  I 
suppose." 

"I?    God  forbid!" 

"Why  not?    They'll  never  dare  to  use  it." 

"Why  not!  You  must  be  crazy,  Long'un.  Supposing 
they  did  use  it,  supposing  it  got  into  the  newspapers  at 
home  and  I  .  .  ."  Thought  of  a  certain  line  in  Si-tuk's 
statement  struck  the  Socialist  once  more  dumb. 

"It  has  not,  I  gather,  crossed  your  English  mind,  doctor" 
— de  Gys  laid  a  thoughtful  paw  over  the  long  parchment — 
"that  the  alternative  to  signing  may  be  ...  a  trifle 
more  unpleasant  than  publicity." 

"You  mean?"  stammered  Beamish. 

"That  we  are  three  unarmed  men  against  a  native  town: 
that,  if  we  were  to  disappear,  nobody  in  Saigon  could  trace 
us  beyond  the  door  of  our  hotel;  that  we  know  a  great  deal 
too  much  about  the  illicit  opium-traffic  for  the  comfort  of 
those  engaged  in  it." 

"You  suggest  they  would  murder  us!"  from  Beamish. 

"They'd  hardly  risk  that,"  from  the  Long'un. 

"Put  yourself  in  their  position,  mes  amis" — the  French- 
man shrugged  his  shoulders — "would  you  trust  important 
secrets  to  three  complete  strangers  without  some  very  binding 
guarantee  that  they  wouldn't  betray  them?  Of  course  not! 


102  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Eh  bien,  continue  for  a  moment  to  think  as  an  Oriental:  try 
to  imagine  that  you  are  no  kwiger  a  sentimentalist,  that  you 
regard  murder — providing  you  can  escape  punishment — as  a 
perfectly  legitimate  method  of  getting  what  you  want.  The 
strangers  know  your  secret :  you  ask  them  to  sign  the  guar- 
antee— and  they  refuse!  As  an  Oriental  do  you  kiss  the 
strangers'  hands,  or  cut  their  throats?" 

Said  the  Long'un,  glancing  at  his  watch:  "We  have  now 
fifteen  minutes  in  which  to  make  up  our  minds.  Person- 
ally— I  wish  we  had  brought  revolvers."  He  looked 
down  into  de  Gys'  eyes,  tried  to  read  their  decision. 
Beamish,  suddenly  convinced  that  the  gospel  of  universal 
brotherhood  needed  a  revised  version,  looked  about  for  a 
weapon. 

"Even  if  we  were  armed" — de  Gys  spoke  with  irritating 
slowness — "it  would  be  useless.  They  could  kill  us,  quite 
comfortably,  from  the  house.  A  rifle — a  bow  and  arrow, 
even!"  Beamish  felt  a  hot  shiver  run  up  his  spine. 

Five  wordless  minutes  ticked  their  way  round  the  Long'- 
un's  watch-face.  Then  the  Frenchman  spoke  again,  rapidly, 
as  one  who  is  resolved  on  a  desperate  course. 

"  Listen,  mes  amis  !  This  is  not  your  affair.  I  was  wrong 
to  drag  you  into  it.  Let  us  make  a  bargain  with  these 
ruffians:  let  them  prepare  another  document,  needing  only 
one  signature — mine.  As  for  you,  pledge  them  your  word 
that  you  will  reveal  nothing.  With  me  for  hostage 

"De  Gys,"  interrupted  the  Honourable  Dicky,  "I  have 
always  been  under  the  impression  that  you  were  a  friend  of 
mine!" 

The  Frenchman  subsided  into  silence.  More  minutes 
ticked  away.  Outside,  in  the  dark  garden,  they  could  hear 
faint  scrapings — the  brush  of  boot-soles  on  gravel.  One  of 
the  scarlet  lamps  above  Dicky's  head  sputtered,  expired.  He 
gazed  down  at  his  two  friends.  Eyes  met;  separated.  He 
could  see  the  interpreter,  already  approaching,  a  crimson 
shadow  on  the  bridge.  Eyes  met  again.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly,  as  though  moved  by  the  impulse  of  a  single 
brain,  their  three  heads  nodded  assent. 


SECRET  DIPLOMACY  103 

"The  doctrine  of  malevolent  force,"  thought  the  Long'un, 
whimsically.     .     .     . 


"I  beg  your  Lordship's  pardon" — the  interpreter's  face 
smirked  unpleasantly  in  the  lantern-light — "but  my  em- 
ployers are  very  anxious  to  know  your  Lordship's  decision." 

"  Tell  them,"  said  Dicky,  "  that  if  they  will  honour  us  with 
their  presence,  we  will  communicate  it  to  them." 

"I  am  afraid,"  retorted  the  interpreter,  "that  if  your  Lord- 
ship's decision  is  unfavourable,  my  employers  will  not  con- 
tinue the  conference.  Therefore,  it  would  be  advisable 
that  I  should  take  back  some  message  of — encouragement." 
He  hesitated  perceptibly.  "  Unless,  of  course,  your  Lordship 
has  decided  not  to  sign!" 

"If  we  had  decided  not  to  sign" — Dicky's  voice  dropped 
two  full  tones — "I  should  have  broken  your  neck  before  this. 
Therefore — go  quickly." 

The  interpreter  vanished. 

"Was  that  wise?"  protested  Beamish,  sotto  voce;  and, 
getting  no  reply,  "Is  it  worth  while  upsetting  them?" 
The  Long'un  seated  himself;  regarded  the  doctor  coldly. 
"You  shut  up,  Beamish.  I'll  handle  these  devils  my  own 
way,  or  not  at  all." 

***** 

And  handle  them  he  did;  through  a  full  hour  of  hard- 
fought  conference,  while  de  Gys  sat  impotent  on  huge  haun- 
ches, and  Beamish,  sick  at  heart,  ruminated  over  the  vanity 
of  universal  brotherhood.  Above  them  the  scarlet  lanterns 
glowed  fainter  and  fainter  as  the  wicks  burned  down  to  their 
sconces;  from  the  garden  came  croak  of  an  occasional  frog, 
buzz  of  insects,  plash  of  fish  in  water;  beyond  the  dragon- 
topped  wall  voices  chattered  and  grew  still. 

Yes,  said  Long'un,  he  would  sign  the  confession.  His 
friends,  too,  would  sign.  Yes,  they  would  sign  three  copies. 
Yes,  they  had  read  the  document  most  carefully.  Yes,  they 
understood  its  meaning.  Its  exact  meaning! 

The  three  yellow  men  listened  imperturbably. 


104  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Then  would  they  please  sign  immediately?  No,  they 
would  not  sign  yet.  Before  they  signed,  they  required 
promises.  Yes,  promises.  Very  definite  promises!  Other- 
wise— and  here  the  Long'un,  with  a  glance  over  his  shoulder, 
indicated  that  before  any  help  could  come  from  the  garden, 
many  things  might  happen  in  the  summer  house — otherwise 
negotiations  would  have  to  be  broken  off.  He  was  sorry; 
but  he  must  insist. 

Did  his  Lordship  realize — and  here  the  interpreter's  hand 
slid  ostentatiously  towards  hip-pocket — that  the  discussion 
could  not  be  prolonged  indefinitely?  Yes,  he  realized  the 
point.  Nevertheless,  there  were  conditions.  .  .  . 

What  conditions? — Beamish  could  have  sworn  he  heard  a 
footfall  on  the  bridge,  click  of  a  pistol  cocking. 

What  conditions !  Well,  firstly,  they  must  have  assurances 
that  no  use — no  illegitimate  use — would  be  made  of  the  docu- 
ments under  discussion.  The  documents  must  be  regarded 
purely  as  a  guarantee — a  guarantee  of  good  faith.  They 
must  be  redeemable — say  after  twelve  months.  .  .  . 

How  did  his  Lordship  propose  to  redeem  them?  That  was 
not  for  him  to  say :  he  and  his  friends  had  not  suggested  the 
documents.  Therefore,  any  suggestion  for  their  redemption 
must  come  from  the  other  side. 

"Clever,"  thought  de  Gys.  "Oh,  clever!  But  does  he 
understand  the  risk?  Phew!  I  can  almost  feel  a  bullet  in 
the  small  of  my  back."  For  now  the  three  yellow  heads  bent 
close  in  conference,  and  it  seemed  to  the  Frenchman  that  only 
the  interpreter's  whispered  arguments  stood  between  himself 
and  death. 

"Your  Lordship's  point  is  well  taken" — impossible  to 
read  any  meaning  into  those  expressionless  eyes — "the 
redemption  of  the  documents  might  be  conceded.  Pro- 
vided always  that  an  oath  of  secrecy  were  taken  in  their 
place.  But  not  within  twelve  months." 

"Within  how  long  then?" 

"Who  can  say?  It  might  need  two  years  for  the  Chinese 
gentleman  to  accomplish  his  mission :  the  accounts  must  be 
scrutinized,  the  payments  to  his  Excellency's  relatives.  .  .  ." 


SECRET  DIPLOMACY  105 

"Your  employers  seem  to  have  forgotten" — the  Long'un's 
nerves  were  beginning  to  feel  the  strain — "that  there  is  not 
only  my  promise  to  his  Excellency,  but  his  Excellency's 
promise  to  me.  I  am  tired  of  this  rigmarole.  Tired!  Do 
you  understand?  Let  us  be  plain  with  each  other.  You 
know  perfectly  well  that  we  did  not  kill  Negrini.  Yet  you 
ask  us  to  sign  this  document.  Why?  I  will  tell  you:  Be- 
cause you  are  afraid  of  us,  because  you  are  afraid  that 
Negrini  told  us  your  secret — the  secret  of  the  black  smoke. 
Don't  interrupt,  please" — at  the  words  " black  smoke"  the 
interpreter  had  raised  a  protesting  finger — "but  listen,  listen 
carefully.  Before  I  and  my  friends  sign  this  bogus  con- 
fession we  demand  three  things.  Firstly,  that  you  show  us 
the  way  to  yellow-island-country;  secondly,  that  you  ac- 
cept the  sum  of  two  thousand  pounds  in  full  settlement  of  my 
promise  to  the  Italian  Negrini;  and  thirdly,  that  you  under- 
take to  return  us  these  documents  against  our  oath  not  to 
reveal  any  of  your  secrets,  as  soon  as  we  return  from  yellow- 
island-country  to  Saigon.  Guarantee  us  these  things — and 
we  sign  at  once.  Otherwise" — stately  phraseology  failed  to 
function— "the  deal's  off!" 

With  a  touch  of  bravado  rare  to  his  nature  the  Long'un 
extracted  silver  cigarette-case  from  his  pocket,  clicked  it 
open,  picked  a  smoke  with  exaggerated  care,  and  lit  up.  . 

"Merci,  mon  ami/1  protested  de  Gys,  hand  outstretched; 
and  he,  too,  kindled  a  cigarette. 

Beamish,  to  save  his  life,  could  not  have  inhaled  a  whiff  of 
tobacco.  Beamish — he  admitted  as  much  to  himself — was 
frightened  out  of  his  wits.  Visible  danger,  he  understood; 
but  this  invisible  menace  which  lurked  behind  a  question; 
this  vague  atmosphere  of  threat  and  terror!  No — frankly, 
he  couldn't  carry  on  much  longer.  He  wanted  to  scream, 
bite,  fight  somebody.  In  another  minute  he  would 
scream.  .  .  .  Beamish  could  only  watch  the  yellow 
men's  lips  as  they  muttered  together.  The  interpreter's 
face  was  perfectly  devilish.  The  other  two  had  no  faces, 
only  disconnected  features:  eyebrows  that  wriggled,  quiver- 
ing moustaches,  pulsing  cheekbones. 


106  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Our  yellow  brethren,"  thought  Beamish.  "Good  God! 
Apes!" 

At  last  the  parley  ended,  and  Beamish  saw,  to  his  utter 
amazement,  a  broad,  friendly  grin  light  up  the  interpreter's 
face. 

"It  is  very  little  money  for  such  a  long  journey,  your 
Lordship,"  grinned  the  interpreter.  "Too  little  money. 
My  employers  say  that  it  cannot  be  done  for  so  little." 

Inwardly,  the  Long'un  gave  vent  to  a  chuckle  of  relief. 
"It's  all  right,  now,"  thought  the  Long'un,  "perfectly  all 
right."  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  on  a  raid,  returned 
safely  to  his  trenches.  He  had  been  desperately  cold,  but 
now  he  sweated.  He  could  feel  the  sweat  pouring  down  his 
cotton  singlet. 

"How  much  money  do  your  employers  require?" 

"Five  thousand  pounds,  my  Lord." 

"That's  a  lot  of  money." 

"Yes,  but,  my  Lord,  there  are  so  many  expenses.  The 
fares  to  Europe  are  very  dear.  And  the  steamship  companies 
do  not  like  carrying — remains,  my  Lord.  It  will  be  necessary 
to  bribe  heavily.  And  then  his  Excellency's  relatives,  my 
Lord" — "don't  haggle,"  whispered  de  Gys — "his  Excellency 
may  have  a  great  number  of  relatives.  And  besides" — 
excitement  disturbed  the  precise  flow  of  academic  English — 
"out  of  the  five  thousand  pounds  will  be  paid  by  us  all  the 
expenses  of  your  Lordship's  journey,  and  the  journey  of  your 
Lordship's  friends,  eighteen  months'  journee,  my  Lord,  all 
the  way  to  yellow-island-countree  and  back  again,  my 
Lord." 

"H'm!"  The  Long'un  was  trying  to  recall  the  suspicions 
de  Gys  had  voiced  that  afternoon.  "H'm!  Do  I  under- 
stand, then,  that  our  journey  to  yellow-island-country  will 
be  purely  a  pleasure-trip,  that  we  shall  not  be  required  to 
undertake  any  responsibilities?  Any  business  responsi- 
bilities?" 

"I  do  not  quite  understand,  my  Lord.  Excuse,  I  ask  my 
employers."  Now  the  three  yellow  faces  grinned  in  unison. 
"They  say,  my  Lord,  that  your  Lordship  need  have  no 


SECRET  DIPLOMACY  107 

anxieties  about  his  journey  to  yellow-island-country.  My 
employers  have  already  made  arrangements,  most  elaborate 
arrangements,  for  your  Lordship's  comfort.  These  they 
will  communicate  to  your  Lordship  after  he  has  signed  the 
document.  Meanwhile,  I  may  state  that  his  departed 
Excellency's  agents  are  of  great  efficiency;  that  very  little 
will  be  required  of  your  Lordship's  vigilance.  A  little 
supervision,  perhaps — sometimes,  the  personal  word.  But 
only  here  and  there,  your  Lordship." 

"But  the  journey  will  be" — purposely  Dicky  hesitated — 
"profitable?" 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  so,  my  Lord." 

"Then  surely  we" — all  the  business-man  in  Dicky  revolted 
at  the  idea  of  unpaid  responsibility — "are  entitled  to  some 
share  in  the  profits." 

He  had  made  his  first  mistake:  almost  before  the  words 
were  out  of  his  mouth  he  knew  himself  in  the  wrong. 
Hostility,  scarcely  veiled,  wiped  the  grin  from  his  opposers' 
faces.  One  of  the  robed  men  spoke  a  sharp  sentence:  the 
interpreter  stiffened  menacingly. 

"My  Lord  imposed  three  conditions.  These  my  em- 
ployers are  willing  to  accept.  They  will  show  your  Lordship 
the  way  to  yellow-island-country;  they  will  hand  back 
these  documents  when  your  Lordship  returns;  they  will 
send  his  Excellency's  remains  to  his  own  place  and  they  will 
care  for  his  Excellency's  relatives.  But  your  Lordship  must 
make  no  more  conditions;  and  the  payment,  the  full  payment 
of  the  five  thousand  pounds,  must  be  agreed  to." 

"I  offered  two  thousand,"  began  the  Long'un,  obstinately. 
But  the  interpreter  cut  him  short: 

"Your  Lordship  takes  us  for  fools.  Let  your  Lordship 
look  into  his  own  heart  and  say  whether  that  for  which  he 
goes  to  yellow-island-country  be  worth  the  price  we  have  set 
upon  it!" 


Dawn  had  begun  while  they  yet  argued.     Mist  and  silence 
brooded  over  the  garden.     Bridge,   rocks,  and  wall  were 


108  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

blurred  shapes — ghosts  of  the  past  night.  And  it  seemed  to 
the  Long'un  as  though  the  yellow  men  opposite  to  him  were 
also  ghosts — ghosts  of  some  future  day.  His  mind  groped 
vainly  after  the  wisdom  of  their  ghosthood.  How  much  did 
they  suspect?  Were  they  wise  to  the  existence  of  the  Flower? 

He  heard  de  Gys  breathing  heavily  at  his  side;  saw  the 
interpreter's  slitty  eyes,  the  quiet  hands  of  the  robed  men, 
Beamish's  tired,  anxious  face. 

Beamish!  A  light  almost  of  clairvoyance  shot  across  the 
darkness  of  the  Long'un's  mind.  Supposing  a  day  should 
dawn  when  the  Beamishes  had  their  way  with  England,  with 
America.  What  would  the  yellow  man  do  then?  Would  he 
assent  to  the  doctrines  of  those  weary  Willies  and  tired  Tims, 
the  International  Socialists?  Hardly.  Benevolent  force 
abolished,  malevolent  force  would  have  its  way.  And  after 
that?  Symbolically,  he  seemed  to  see  that  final  Peace  Con- 
ference: white  men,  beaten  to  their  knees,  suing  for 
mercy.  But  there  would  be  no  mercy.  .  .  . 

Shuddering,  the  Long'un  came  back  to  realities. 

He  felt  himself  beaten.  They  must  deliver  themselves, 
bound  and  blindfolded,  into  those  quiet  yellow  hands.  And 
the  yellow  hands  would  carry  them — whither?  To  Harinesia. 
There  might  be  no  Harinesia ! 

And,  "Hell!"  thought  the  Long'un  suddenly,  "I  wish  I'd 
stuck  to  the  cotton  business.  I  wish  I  were  out  of  this." 

But  they  couldn't  get  out.  They  must  sign  the  confessions ; 
leave  all  else — journey's  beginning  to  journey's  ending — in 
those  quiet  yellow  hands. 

"Groping!"  he  thought.  "Groping  through  fog  towards 
forbidden  things:  de  Gys  for  the  sake  of  his  country,  Bea- 
mish for  the  sake  of  the  Flower,  and  I?  Why  am  /  here?" 

He  could  not  answer  that  question.  One  thing  alone  he 
saw  clearly:  that  he  had  pledged  his  word  to  de  Gys. 
Therefore,  at  all  risks — and  there  were  a  thousand  risks — his 
word  must  be  kept. 

He  whispered  to  the  Frenchman,  "I'm  going  to  accept." 


SECRET  DIPLOMACY  109 

"Thank  you,  gentlemen."  The  interpreter  rolled  up  the 
last  of  the  three  be-tasselled  parchments  with  a  click  of 
finality;  handed  them  to  one  of  the  robed  men.  Beamish, 
fountain-pen  still  gripped  in  unconscious  fingers,  dared  his 
first  question. 

"Can  we  go  back  to  our  hotel  now?"  asked  Cyprian  Bea- 
mish. 

Smilingly,  the  interpreter  pointed  to  the  sun-tinged  sky. 
"It  is  very  late,  gentlemen:  too  late  for  you  to  return  to 
Saigon." 

There  had  been  no  fuss,  no  ceremony.  Quietly,  Dicky 
had  announced  his  decision.  Quietly,  the  interpreter  had 
translated  it.  Quietly,  they  had  signed  away  their  liberty. 
For  to  that — neither  to  more  nor  to  less — the  bargain  they 
had  struck  amounted.  With  a  flick  of  the  pen — and  this 
each  of  the  three  realized  as  the  nib  glided  OTer  smooth  parch- 
ment— they  gave  up  all  control  of  their  own  destinies,  all 
freedom.  Unarmed,  slaves  to  force  and  circumstance,  they 
yielded  to  the  yellow  man:  he  could  do  with  them  as  he 
would.  And  quietly,  with  a  grin  on  his  face,  the  yellow 
man  gave  first  proof  of  his  new-won  power. 

"  My  employers  do  not  think  it  advisable  that  you  should 
return  to  Saigon,  gentlemen.  To-morrow,  you  will  start  for 
yellow-island-country.  Before  that,  many  things  must  be 
done.  Instruction  must  be  given;  letters  written  to  our 
agents;  the  payment  of  moneys  arranged  for.  Above  all" — 
the  grin  grew  positively  malicious — "  certain  changes  in  your 
appearances,  changes  such  as  were  wrought  upon  his  departed 
Excellency,  N'ging,  changes  which  only  the  most  skilful 
artists  can  perform,  have  to  be  made.  Therefore,  my 
employers  ask  that  you  will  accept  such  hospitality  as  their 
poor  house  affords." 

"But  our  servants,  our  baggage,  our  hotel  bill!"  protested 
the  Long'un. 

"Your  servants,  and  such  baggage  as  you  will  require,  are 
in  the  house,  my  Lord.  And  the  hotel  proprietor  has  already 
been  informed  that  neither  your  Lordship  nor  your  Lordship's 
friends  will  be  returning.  .  .  ." 


110  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Very  quietly,  the  interpreter  led  way  out  of  the  arbour, 
over  the  bamboo  bridge,  into  the  house.  Very  quietly,  fear 
and  distrust  in  their  hearts,  the  three  Fan-qui-lo  followed 
him. 


"Of  whom  thinkest  thou,  brother?"  The  two  robed 
figures  bent  close  in  converse.  "O  brother,  I  think  of  the 
woman  Su-rah."  "And  what  thinkest  thou  of  the  woman 
Su-rah,  brother?"  "Brother,  I  think  that  she  showed  great 
wisdom  in  her  dealing  with  brother  N'ging."  "Then  let 
us  hope  that  she  continues  to  display  wisdom,  brother.  It 
is  ill  work  trusting  secrets  to  the  Fan-qui-lo." 


CHAPTER  THE  TENTH 

In  which  the  reader,  having  skipped  a  painful  metamorphosis , 
many  weeks  and  many  hundred  miles  of  fearsome  discomfort, 
not  to  mention  several  degrees  north,  arrives  at  Luang-prabang 
on  the  Me-Nam-Khong  (or  Mekong)  River,  in  the  very  heart  of 
Suvarnabhumi 

STORM,  the  violent  thunder-riven  downpour  of  Laos- 
land,  had  passed  swiftly  as  it  came.  Now  late- 
afternoon  sunshine  glinted  over  Luang-prabang,  lit 
the  bunched  and  sopping  fronds  of  its  palm-trees  to  fairy- 
fans  of  clear  jade  and  gleaming  silver,  the  gray-green  of  its 
river  to  intensest  emerald. 

Hill-perched  above  the  town,  white- walled  among  greenery, 
golden  arrow-point  stabbing  new-washed  sky,  glowed  the 
Tiom  Si  pagoda;  below,  palmetto-thatches  shone  tent-like  on 
the  tree-burdened  slopes;  at  river-bank,  palisaded  gardens 
glittered  emerald  above  the  emerald  waters.  And  beyond 
the  river  rose  other  hills,  glorious — range  upon  range  of 
sapphire  kindling  into  topaz — jewelled  ranges  banding  a 
jewelled  horizon. 

But  the  three  men  on  the  river-bank  cared  for  none  of 
these  things.  They  were  too  hot,  too  fever-stricken,  too 
much  bitten  by  insects,  and — above  all — too  hungry;  they 
looked  back  on  too  many  miles  tramped  bare-foot  in  the 
shadow  of  those  ranges,  on  too  many  nights  slept  under  such 
palmetto-thatches,  on  too  many  days  of  endless  poling  up 
similar  emerald  river-reaches,  on  too  many  rain-storms  and 
too  much  sunshine,  to  take  any  further  interest  in  tropical 
scenery.  Such  interest  as  remained  to  them  disdained  the 
present,  projected  itself  solely  towards  the  future. 

For  the  future — as  each  of  the  three  admitted  to  his  private 

111 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

soul — might  afford  an  opportunity,  just  one  opportunity, 
of  murdering  Si-tuk  the  Dwarf! 

That  dwarf!  They  could  hear  him,  whistling  the  never- 
ceasing  nerve-fretting  whistle  which  served  his  pinched  lips 
for  song,  somewhere  in  the  clump  behind  them.  Presently 
he  emerged  into  the  sun-glow — a  malevolent  apparition, 
monkey-like,  with  the  body  of  an  ungainly  child  and  the  face 
of  a  wicked  old  man;  grinned  at  them;  and  shuffled  off  down 
the  wet  bamboo-revetted  river-bank,  out  of  sight.  They 
heard  the  plunk  of  his  feet  as  he  jumped  into  the  canoe;  heard 
the  whistling  recommence. 

Undoubtedly,  mere  killing  would  be  too  good  for  such  a 
creature.  The  three  men  glanced  at  each  other  in  silence; 
saw  the  travesties  of  manhood  which  Si-tuk's  handiwork  had 
made  of  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith,  Comman- 
dant Rene  de  Gys,  and  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.  D.,  Glasgow. 

They  were  dressed  exactly  alike :  felt  sandals,  loose  socks, 
wide  trousers  of  dirty  linen,  soiled  blue  silk  coatees,  peaked 
cart-wheel  sun-hats  of  coarse  straw.  Their  complexions 
were  tinted  the  same  indeterminate  yellow  as  their  torn,  un- 
cared-for hands.  Dicky's  flat  moustache  had  been  shorn 
away,  revealing  firm  mouth,  drawn  down  at  the  corners  as  if 
by  pain,  his  hair,  once  golden,  hung,  jet-black,  almost  to 
his  shoulders.  And  de  Gys'  red  beard,  formerly  pride  of 
caressing  fingers,  was  now  but  a  bifurcated  gray  ghost  of  its 
whiskered  prime. 

Yet  for  all  Si-tuk's  camouflage  the  two  giants  hardly 
resembled  Chinamen:  their  eyes  were  too  fierce,  their 
shoulders  too  square;  whereas  Beamish  .  .  .  Beamish 
was  a  Chink.  The  gray  locks  had  needed  no  dyeing,  the 
muddy  complexion  a  merest  touch  of  the  tinting-pencil,  for 
dull  eyes,  bowed  shoulders,  wrinkled  forehead,  and  pointed 
ears  to  complete  a  perfect  illusion :  so  that  the  doctor,  as  he 
crouched  on  his  haunches  in  the  chequered  shadows,  might 
have  been  indeed  the  middle-aged  Yunnanese  merchant  of 
his  forged  passport. 

Still,  they  could  have  forgiven  Si-tuk  the  disguising. 
Concealment  of  white  identity  they  realized  to  be  necessary: 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  SUVARNABHUMI   113 

on  the  same  score,  they  might  perhaps  have  forgiven  him  the 
roundabout  route  by  which  he  had  brought  them  from 
Saigon,  the  unpretentious  outfit,  the  cheap  transport;  but 
never,  never  so  long  as  they  lived,  could  they  forgive  his 
insolence,  his  continuous,  contemptuous  whistle,  nor — 
above  all — the  disgusting  food  with  which  he  had  supplied 
them. 

"And,  damn  his  eyes,"  broke  out  the  Long'un,  "we're 
supposed  to  be  his  masters." 

"  We  shall  be — in  a  few  days'  time."  They  rarely  discussed 
anything  except  the  dwarf,  and  de  Gys  took  his  friend's 
meaning  without  explanation.  "Wait  till  we're  among  the 
mountains." 

"What's  the  use?"  put  in  Beamish,  furiously  (six  weeks 
of  unadulterated  rice-diet  had  not  improved  his  vegetarian 
temper),  "the  little  beast  knows  the  way  to  Harinesia,  and 
we  don't." 

"There  are  methods  of  making  him  tell  us,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  grimly,  and  all  three  relapsed  into  disgruntled 
contemplation  of  the  landscape. 


Meanwhile  Si-tuk,  supine  in  the  "canoe" — a  narrow  60-foot 
Laotian  river-boat,  teak-hulled,  palmetto-roofed  cabin  abaft, 
polers'  deck  forward — gave  way  to  amused  soliloquy.  Of  all 
fools,  thought  the  dwarf,  and  there  were  many  fools  in  Indo- 
China,  Laotian  fools  and  Siamese  fools,  Khmer  fools  and 
Annamite  fools,  surely  none  equalled  these  three  Fan-qui-lo  in 
their  folly. 

Had  they  not  signed  a  confession  of  a  murder  committed 
by  someone  else?  By  a  woman  who.  .  .  .  Here  Si-tuk's 
whistle  rose  to  a  chuckling  crescendo. 

Had  they  not  permitted  two  of  their  servants,  See-Sim  and 
Lo-pin,  to  desert  them — making  no  protest,  paying  the  full 
wages  due — keeping  only  that  ignorant  savage  Phu-nan? 

Had  they  not  accepted  full  responsibility  towards  the 
White  Tiger  for  the  twelve  cases  of  stamped  silver  surrepti- 
tiously taken  aboard  at  Bassak,  for  the  buying  of  the  black 


114  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

smoke,  and  its  handing-over  to  those  who  would  deliver  it 
across  the  border?  Had  they  not  allowed  him,  Si-tuk  the 
astute,  to  do  as  he  would  with  them  for  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  li,  all  the  way  up  the  river,  from  Kratie  to 
Sambor,  from  Sambor  to  Stung-Treng,  from  Stung-Treng  to 
Bassak,  from  Bassak  to  Khemerat? 

Had  he  not  lost  their  baggage;  made  them  walk  when  they 
should  have  canoed,  canoe  when  they  might  have  taken 
elephants?  Had  he  not  kept  them  waiting  a  whole  seven 
days  at  Hutien?  Had  he  not  fed  them  on  lizards,  and  old 
eggs,  and  mouldy  rice?  Had  he  not,  with  his  own  mouth, 
blown  sour  milk  into  the  tins  of  kon-dens  which  Phu-nan 
guarded  so  carefully,  so  that  the  devil  with  the  red  beard 
nearly  died  of  gripes  in  the  stomach? 

And  now — the  whistling  stopped  suddenly — now  he  would 
soon  be  finally  revenged  on  them  for  the  insults  offered  to 
his  master,  to  that  most  excellent  spirit,  the  departed 
Excellency  N'ging !  Once  deliver  the  foreign  devils  to  yellow- 
island-country,  and  the  woman  Su-rah.  .  .  .  Whistling 
recommenced,  rose  again  to  chuckling  crescendo  as  Phu-nan 
stepped  aboard. 

The  Moi  had  been  foraging.  He  carried  a  basket  of  fresh 
eggs,  a  newly  slain  chicken,  a  leg  of  pork,  and — carefully 
wrapped  in  banana-leaves — a  cochineal-tinted  pat  of  Mekong 
caviare,  which  is  the  roe  of  that  woman-long  fish  the  Pla 
Boeuk,  spawn  of  her  legendary  mating  with  the  golden  mon- 
sters of  Lake  Tali  a  thousand  miles  to  southwards  of  Luang- 
prabang. 

These  delicacies  Si-tuk  eyed  with  a  scowl.  "May  the 
evil  spirits  spit  upon  the  ghost  of  that  savage's  great-grand- 
mother," thought  Si-tuk,  "such  food  is  too  good  for  the  foreign 
devils."  But  aloud  he  said  nothing,  having  no  language  in 
common  with  the  little  brown  servant. 

Phu-nan  stooped  his  way  into  the  cabin,  began  groping 
about  for  kitchen-utensils.  The  sight  of  the  dwarf — squat 
silhouette  in  the  arch  of  crimson  sunlight — maddened  Phu- 
nan.  Phu-nan  could  feel,  against  his,  damp  skin,  the  cold 
pressure  of  de  Gys'  pistol.  Phu-nan  was  very  glad  to  have 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  SUVARNABHUMI   115 

succeeded  in  secretly  salving  that  pistol.  One  day,  Phu-nan 
would  draw  that  pistol,  blaze  it  in  Si-tuk's  grinning  face. 
His  master  should  have  killed  the  dwarf  long  ago.  Why  had 
his  master  refrained  from  killing  the  dwarf?  His  master, 
before  this  madness  seized  him,  had  been  a  great  killer. 

And  for  the  thousandth  time  Phu-nan  racked  his  savage 
brains  to  solve  the  mystery  of  this  strange  voyage.  He  had 
been  told  that  he  must  not  reveal  his  masters'  identity,  that 
this  journeying  was  not  as  other  journeyings,  that  to  all 
their  old  friends  along  the  river-bank  he  must  say,  "My 
master  with  the  red  beard  has  gone  across  the  big  water, 
therefore  I  serve  these  Yunnanese  merchants  till  he  returns." 

A  mysterious  business,  thought  Phu-nan;  and  remembered 
how,  at  Khemerat  Rapids,  a  phalangse  capitaine  had  ques- 
tioned him  very  closely,  saying,  "Were  you  not  once  the  boy 
of  Commandant  de  Gys?",  and  how,  when  he  told  his  master 
of  that  questioning,  his  master  had  been  very  angry,  bidding 
him  talk  no  more  with  phalangses. 

"  A  mysterious  business,"  he  thought  again;  and  began  to 
pluck  the  newly  slain  fowl. 


Invisible  from  the  canoe,  on  the  high  bamboo-revetted  river- 
bank,  the  three  still  crouched  in  disgruntled  silence.  The 
sun,  a  ball  of  crimson  lacquer,  was  already  dipping  behind 
multicoloured  ranges.  Dust-motes  danced  golden  in  the  air. 

Now  twilight  poured  swift  hydrangeas  down  the  hill- 
sides. A  breeze  blew  cool  from  the  far  violets  of  northward 
horizon,  rustling  palm-fronds  and  bamboo  canes,  rippling 
the  broad  polished  mirror  of  the  stream.  And  with  the 
breeze  of  evening  the  town  awoke. 

They  could  hear,  behind  them,  the  soft  murmur  of  that 
awaking :  wailing  music  of  kens*  shouts  of  children,  beat  of 
gongs  from  the  pagodas.  Brown  girls,  orchids  at  their  ears, 
lithe  forms  swathed  in  the  gold-shot  crimson  pasiri\  of 


*Reed  pipes. 
fNarrow  skirts. 


116  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Laos-land,  sauntered  past;  followed  at  respectful  distance  by 
their  bare-foot  lovers. 

" Luang -prabang ,  ou  les  merges  sont  folles,  ei  les  femmes 
fideles,"  quoted  de  Gys. 

Twilight  deepened.  On  the  river,  carnival  began.  A 
thousand  canoes,  narrow-beamed,  high  of  prow  and  stern, 
glided  hither  and  thither  across  the  waters  of  the  Mekong. 
Shadowy  forms  bent  gracefully  to  plunging  poles;  shadowy 
arms  rose  and  dipped  in  unison  to  thrusting  paddles.  Laugh- 
ter came  from  the  canoes,  and  low,  tense  singing,  and  flute- 
like  music  of  the  kens.  Lights  gleamed  from  the  canoes, 
little  dancing  specks  low  adown  on  the  water. 

But  the  three  were  not  watching  the  lights  on  the  water 
nor  listening  to  the  love-songs  of  the  Laotians.  Half  a  mile 
away  on  the  hill-sides  of  the  opposite  bank  gleamed  other 
lights,  the  lights  of  the  Agence  Frangaise.  There,  too, 
sounded  music — the  syncopated  music  of  a  gramophone. 
They  could  hear  the  tune  quite  plainly — a  silly  jazz-time 
song  nearly  two  years  out  of  date. 

"When,  when,  when,  when,  you  hear  that  buck-nig  blowing, 
Then,  then,  then,  then,  keep  your  tickle-toes  going,"  played 
the  gramophone.  Nonsense! — but  it  very  nearly  brought 
tears  into  the  blue  eyes  of  Colonel  the  Honourable  R.  Asshe- 
ton  Smith,  D.S.O.,  M.C. 

"I  was  in  command  here  for  six  months,"  said  de  Gys. 
"Leroux's  got  it  now.  He  brought  his  wife  up  country,  they 
say.  A  nice  chap,  but  not  very  intelligent." 

"Intelligent!" — the  Long'un  spoke  with  all  the  disgust 
of  a  fever-patient.  "We're  nice  people  to  talk  about  intel- 
lect. Three  sanguinary  fools  on  a  wild-goose  chase!  Three 
painted  idiots  led  by  a  yellow  dwarf!  Three  opium-smug- 
glers! Three.  .  .  ." 

"Time  for  your  quinine,  Long'un,"  interrupted  Beamish. 
"We're  nearly  out  of  the  stuff,  confound  it." 

"Then  why  can't  de  Gys  go  and  get  some  at  the  Agence? 
What  the  hell's  the  good  of  all  this  secrecy?  I'm  about  fed 
up  with  the  whole  damn  business.  Let's  drown  Si-tuk  in  the 
Mekong;  let's  go  to  this  chap  Leroux,  borrow  a  platoon 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  SUVARNABHUMI   117 

of  infantry,  a  couple  of  elephants,  and  a  machine-gun; 
let's  .  .  ." 

"Mon  ami,"  retorted  de  Gys,  "you  know  perfectly  well 
that  you  are  talking  nonsense." 

Dicky  vented  an  Anglo-Saxon  blasphemy  which  would 
have  shocked  the  Cyprian  Beamish  of  Singapore  to  his 
marrow-bones;  and  accepted  the  quinine  bottle.  His  fingers, 
as  he  fumbled  with  the  stopper,  trembled  like  violin-strings. 
" Blast  de  Gys,"  thought  Dicky,  "blast  that  crazy  Socialist 
Beamish,  blast  Si-tuk  and  the  Tong  of  the  White  Tiger.  A 
nice  mess  we're  in.  A  nice  ruddy  mess." 

The  quinine  started  to  buzz  in  his  brain.  Thought  cleared 
a  little.  De  Gys,  of  course,  was  right.  To  approach  the 
French  officials  would  ruin  them.  The  Tong  would  hear  of 
it  at  once,  regard  it  as  a  breach  of  faith.  The  Tong  seemed 
to  have  agents  everywhere.  All  the  way  up  the  Mekong 
Chinamen  had  been  meeting  them,  coming  in  the  late  night, 
departing  before  dawn,  asking  questions,  inspecting  the 
specie  boxes.  To  murder  Si-tuk  would  be  useless.  Only 
Si-tuk  knew  the  road  to  yellow-island-country.  But  once 
off  the  river,  alone  with  Si-tuk  among  the  mountains — how 
careful  he  had  been  so  far,  never  giving  them  a  chance,  the 
abominable  misshapen  dirty  stinking  yellow  devil — then 
they  could  torture  the  secret  out  of  him,  torture  him  till  he 
screamed  for  mercy.  .  .  . 

"My  poor  friend,"  de  Gys  was  speaking  again,  "you  are 
very  ill.  It  would  be  better  perhaps  to  abandon  the  rest  of 
the  voyage.  I  regret  that  I  have  dragged  you  all  this  way  up 
country,  under  such  conditions." 

"Moi  aussi"  said  the  Long'un,  sullenly.  "But  having 
got  so  far,  I  propose  to  go  through  with  it." 

De  Gys,  who  knew  fever,  accepted  the  rebuke  without 
comment.  "I  warned  them  both,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
they  wouldn't  listen.  The  Colonel  is  right — we  must  go 
through  with  it.  But,  my  God,  what  humiliation."  He 
fingered  his  lacerated  beard  regretfully.  "My  beautiful 
beard,"  he  thought,  "will  it  ever  grow  again?" 

To  the  Frenchman,  their  grotesque  pilgrimage  had  been 


118  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

from  the  outset  almost  intolerable.  He,  alone  of  the  three, 
realized  the  exact  difference  between  travelling  "white"  and 
travelling  "yellow":  the  loss  of  prestige,  of  speed,  of  comfort, 
and  of  cleanliness,  entailed  by  their  disguises.  He  alone 
could  recall  pleasant  voyages  up  that  very  river.  He  alone 
fully  understood  the  scornful  comments  of  their  boatmen,  the 
muttered  insolences  of  Si-tuk.  Also,  he  alone  realized  the 
full  extent  of  their  danger. 

For  the  Tong's  policy,  reasoned  de  Gys,  must  be  this:  to 
cash  the  cheque  for  five  thousand  which  Dicky  had  given,  to 
use  the  three  of  them  for  procuring  the  opium;  and  then, 
to  cover  all  tracks  by  the  simplest  method  possible — murder. 
To  murder  three  unknown  Yunnanese  merchants  hi  the  wilds 
of  the  Ha  Tang  Hoc  would  be  easy,  too  bigrement  easy  for 
words.  The  crime,  if  ever  discovered,  would  scarcely  excite 
comment.  And  no  official  could  identify  its  victims,  because 
— except  for  the  chance  that  a  cable  to  Dicky's  father  had 
not  stuck,  with  its  heavy  accompanying  bribe,  in  See-Sim's 
capacious  sleeves — not  one  soul  in  the  world  knew  of  their 
whereabouts.  They  had  simply  vanished,  between  dusk  and 
dawn,  from  the  Hotel  Continental  at  Saigon  into  the  un- 
known. 

And  in  the  unknown,  decided  de  Gys,  they  must  remain. 
If  Harinesia  existed,  if  the  Flower  Folk  existed,  they  might 
return  one  day,  covered  with  glory,  to  civilization.  If 
not  .... 

The  big  man  shivered,  controlled  himself.  "Why  worry?" 
he  mused.  "In  a  week  or  so  we  shall  know  the  best — or  the 
worst." 

Phu-nan  appeared,  salaaming  in  the  dusk,  to  announce 
dinner.  They  ate  the  unaccustomed  luxuries  gratefully, 
squatting  on  their  specie  boxes  in  the  stuffy  cabin;  drank 
their  rice- wine  from  tin  cups;  lit  awful  cigarettes  of  Khas 
Khouen  tobacco;  and  returned  ashore.  Si-tuk  had  insisted 
that  they  should  avoid  the  centre  of  the  town;  and  for  once 
they  agreed  with  the  dwarf's  advice — de  Gys  being  too  well 
known  in  Luang-prabang  to  risk  detection. 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  SUVARNABHUMI   119 

It  was  a  great  night  of  starshine;  close  overheard  the 
indigo  vault,  canopy  of  velvet  and  diamonds,  blazed  and 
shimmered;  at  their  feet  the  river  poured  enormous  flood  of 
glittering  silver,  broken  here  and  there  to  molten  gold  by  the 
leap  of  fishes;  beyond  the  flood,  the  ranges  stood  out  in  etched 
sepia  against  turquoise  after-glow  of  sun-down. 

"Beautiful,"  announced  Beamish,  suddenly,  "quite  beau- 
tiful!" 

"Barring  the  mosquitoes,"  grunted  the  Long'un,  slapping 
blindly  at  a  buzz  in  the  dark. 

But  the  doctor  took  no  notice;  for  the  moment  pullet 
and  rosy  caviare  had  their  way  with  him;  past  troubles 
waned,  hope  waxed  star-like  across  the  future. 

"We  shall  succeed,"  he  prophesied.  "I  feel  it  in  my  soul. 
We  shall  find  Harinesia:  we  shall  find  the  Flower.  As  this 
afternoon's  storm  passed,  as  sunshine  followed  it,  so  all  these 
discomforts  we  have  suffered  shall  lead  us  to  the  country  of 
our  dreams.  And  not  we  alone,  but  all  humanity,  even  the 
lowest  of  God's  creatures.  .  .  ." 

"Meaning  Si-tuk,"  interrupted  the  Long'un. 

"Yes,  even  creatures  like  Si-tuk  shall  benefit  by  our 
sacrifices,  shall  know  true  happiness,  the  happiness  which 
dwells,  unguessed-of  and  unknown,  in  the  heart  of  man." 

"The  doctor  has  one  of  his  crazy  fits  this  evening," 
whispered  de  Gys;  and  felt  in  the  sleeve-pocket  of  his  coatee  to 
find  out  if  by  any  chance  Melie's  snuff-box  were  again  missing. 

"What's  the  matter,  more  eczema?"  asked  Dicky,  sym- 
pathetically. 

"A  touch  of  it,  I'm  afraid."  The  snuff-box  was  in  its 
accustomed  place;  but  de  Gys  pretended  to  scratch  himself  for 
a  full  minute  longer.  He  had  no  wish  that  the  Long'un,  still 
feverish  and  irritable,  should  share  his  knowledge  of  the  petty 
thefts — a  purple  bean  here,  a  bit  of  wallflower-brown  fibre 
there — which  Beamish  had  been  committing  ever  since  they 
started. 

"Poor  doctor,"  thought  de  Gys,  "he  can't  help  stealing  the 
stuff.  He  is  an  idealist,  that  one";  and  his  eyes  gave  him  a 
clear  picture  of  Beamish,  sarong  round  his  loins,  creeping 


120  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

across  the  cabin,  bending  down  to  filch  the  box,  slipping  it 
back  again,  tip-toeing  to  his  mattress.  "The  poor  doctor 
who  does  not  know  how  lightly  I  sleep." 

"Happiness  dwells  in  the  heart  of  man,  not  in  his  body," 
went  on  the  "poor  doctor."  "Fools  that  we  are,  who  strive 
and  sweat  after  material  prosperity.  The  East  is  wiser  than 
the  West;  the  East  dreams  while  we  work;  the  East  knows  that 
leisure  and  contemplation  are  worth  more  than  all  our  toil." 

"Rats!"  retorted  the  Long'un.  "Rats  and  Matthew 
Arnold.  Here  comes  the  confutation  of  your  argument!" 
And  very  clearly,  nearing  through  the  night,  the  three 
heard  Si-tuk's  uncanny  whistle. 

He  shuffled  up  the  bank  to  them,  bowed  mockingly. 

"O  great  ones,  two  strangers  crave  audience.  Is  it  per- 
mitted that  they  should  approach?" 

"It  is  very  late,"  grumbled  de  Gys. 

"Our  business  is  not  of  the  daylight."  The  taller  of  two 
Chinese  figures,  materialized  abruptly  from  the  shadows,  took 
the  answer  from  the  dwarf's  mouth.  "We  bring  greetings, 
and  a  message  from  Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese." 

"Is  the  message  for  our  ears  alone?" 

"For  your  Excellency's  ears,  and  the  ears  of  your  servant," 
said  the  second  figure.  The  pair — it  was  too  dark  to  dis- 
tinguish their  features — squatted  down  on  the  river-bank. 
"Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese  trusts  that  the  arrangements  made 
for  your  Excellency's  comfort  have  been  satisfactory:  he 
hopes  that  your  Excellencies  enjoy  good  health  and  strength 
for  the  work  to  be  accomplished." 

De  Gys  reciprocated  the  necessary  rigmarole;  and  the 
Chinaman  continued: 

"  This  is  the  message  of  Pu-yi.  The  road  by  that  mountain 
which  you  of  the  South  call  Theng,  and  we  of  the  North, 
Dien-Bien-Phu,  is  closed.  Therefore  to-morrow  at  dawn 
the  boatmen  shall  be  ordered  to  enter  the  Nam  Khane  River. 
And  after  six  days'  travel,  at  that  place  which  Si-tuk  your 
servant  knows,  there  shall  meet  your  Excellencies  those  who 
deliver  the  poppy.  Them  you  shall  greet  with  the  word 
'N'ging.'  Is  it  understood?  " 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  SUVARNABHUMI   121 

"It  is  understood,"  said  de  Gys. 

"And  with  them — they  having  mules  and  all  things  neces- 
sary— you  shall  proceed  ten  days  along  the  way  Si-tuk  your 
servant  shall  show,  until  you  come  to  The  Gates.  Neither 
Si-tuk  your  servant  nor  they  who  deliver  the  poppy  may  enter 
The  Gates.  Is  that,  too,  understood?" 

"It  is  understood." 

"Therefore,  your  Excellencies  must  go  forward  alone  into 
yellow-island-country.  Si-tuk  your  servant  and  those  who 
deliver  the  poppy  shall  camp  two  bow-shots  from  The 
Gates  against  your  return.  Pu-yi  charges  your  Excellencies 
to  be  diligent  in  the  buying  of  the  poppy;  and  bids  you — 
should  any  difficulties  arise — trust  confidently  to  the  guid- 
ance of  the  woman  Su-rah." 

"And  who  is  this  woman?"  began  de  Gys;  but  already, 
shadows  among  shadows,  the  Chinamen  and  Si-tuk  had  dis- 
appeared. 


After-glow  of  sundown  darkled  behind  the  ranges;  lights 
in  the  Agence  Frangaise  faded  to  blackness;  on  the  river,  the 
last  fish  leaped  and  was  still.  Silence  of  midnight  brooded 
over  Luang-prabang.  But  the  three  were  not  yet  a-bed: 
they  sat  in  council,  cigarettes  glowing  red  among  the  electric 
fire-flies. 

"I  was  right,  you  see,"  said  Beamish.  "Harinesia  exists. 
In  a  fortnight,  we  shall  be  there.  And  beyond  Harinesia,  we 
shall  find  the  Flower." 

"Gently,  my  friend,  gently!"  warned  the  Frenchman. 
"  As  yet,  we  know  nothing.  Where  are  these  Gates,  and  who, 
think  you,  is  this  woman  Su-rah?" 

"  Negrini's  murderess ! "  The  Long'un  chuckled  feverishly. 
"The  woman  we  were  to  bribe  with  a  necklace  of  pearls t 
Now  they  tell  us  to  trust  her.  It  seems  to  me,  de  Gys,  that 
we're  running  our  necks  into  a  pretty  noose." 

"Aye,"  said  de  Gys.  "That  is  very  possible.  But  one 
vow  I  make  here  in  your  presence.  If  we  die,  Si-tuk  the 
dwarf  dies  also." 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Amen  to  that,"  said  the  Long'un;  and  so  the  three  of  them 
turned  in — but  only  to  lie  awake,  listening,  hour  after  hour, 
to  the  sardonic  chuckle  of  the  river;  speculating,  hour  after 
sleepless  hour,  on  the  message  of  the  two  Chinamen  and  the 
tale  that  Negrini  the  Italian  had  told  between  his  opium- 
pipes  in  the  house  of  Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese.  And  when  at 
last  they  slept,  strange  dreams  came  to  them,  dreams  in  which 
they  seemed  to  see  Melie  .  .  .  but  between  them  and 
Melie,  brazen  lattices  across  their  dreamlands,  rose  The 
Gates,  The  Gates  of  Harinesia. 

And  in  the  early  dawn — while  the  mist  still  heaved,  a  vast 
gray  carpet,  across  the  river — they  woke  to  find  the  Laotian 
boatmen,  five  figures  of  muscled  bronze,  naked  save  for  their 
loin-cloths,  making  prayers  and  offering  leaves  of  betel-nut  to 
the  genii  of  the  river. 

And  as  the  mist  cleared  came  other  men,  who  fastened 
rafts  of  bamboo  to  either  side  the  decked  canoe;  for  the 
Mekong  and  the  Nam  Hou  had  flooded  overnight,  closing 
the  road  to  Dien-Bien-Phu  even  as  the  messengers  of  Pu-yi 
foretold. 

And  ere  the  sun  peeped  up  behind  the  golden  arrow  of  the 
Tiom  Si  pagoda  their  steersman  clambered  aft  with  his 
steering-oar,  and  the  four  pole-men  took  their  stations 
forward;  and  one  by  one,  in  rhythmic  unison,  the  long  poles 
rose  and  twirled  and  plunged  to  stream,  driving  them  slowly 
forward  up  the  bubbling,  swirling  Mekong,  past  the  pali- 
saded gardens  at  river-bank,  past  thatched  cabins  a-cluster 
among  palm-trees,  past  the  thousand  canoes  a-strain  at  their 
mooring-ropes,  to  the  rock-bound  mouth  of  the  Nam  Khane. 

And  there,  for  a  full  hour,  they  fought  with  rope  and  pole 
and  paddle  among  the  rapids,  hearing  the  bamboo-rafts 
grind  and  squelch  against  the  sand-stone  overside,  seeing  the 
far  bank  lift  and  disappear,  watching  the  sun-bright  hills 
turn  blindly  above;  losing  a  yard,  gaining  a  yard;  till,  at  last, 
the  rapids  gave  way  before  them,  and  once  again,  one  by  one 
in  rhythmic  unison,  the  long  poles  rose  and  twirled  and 
plunged  to  stream,  driving  them  forward,  forward  into  the 
unknown. 


CHAPTER  THE  ELEVENTH 

How  Si-tuk  the  Dwarf  uttered  one  insult  too  many;  and 
how,  being  properly  subdued,  he  led  humble  way  into  strange 
places 

ON  THE  third  afternoon  out  from  Luang-prabang — 
two  beyond  Ban  Naphao,  where  Henri  Mouhot, 
first  Frenchman  to  dare  the  Upper  Mekong,  scrawled 
in  his  diary,  "O  God,  have  mercy  upon  me,"  and  so  laid  him 
down  to  die  under  the  trees — their  polers  rested  for  a  moment 
at  the  confluent  of  the  Nam  Khane  and  a  muddy  creek  which 
de  Gys  reckoned  to  be  tributary  of  the  Nam  Seuant. 

Here  they  might  have  been  at  world's  end:  overhead  the 
sky  was  gray  with  the  presage  of  storm;  southwards  and 
westwards,  black  gorges  of  naked  basalt  walled  the  horizon; 
east,  across  the  tumbling  yellow  of  the  main-stream,  stretched 
impenetrable  jungle;  north,  the  creek  disappeared  in  man- 
grove-swamp. 

No  smoke  of  village  spired  to  that  gray  sky;  no  Khas 
passed  along  those  forbidding  gorges.  No  beast  growled, 
no  bird  fluttered  in  that  waste  of  jungle;  no  fish  leaped 
from  that  turbid  stream.  Only  in  the  mangrove  swamp  was 
life:  ceaseless  buzz  of  insects  wheeling  in  dun  clouds  above 
the  slime;  and  in  the  slime's  self  stilted  shapes  hobbling 
among  the  rotted  trunks,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  long- 
legged  land-crabs. 

"Phew!"  snorted  the  Long'un,  reek  of  the  swamp  sickening 
his  nostrils.  "We  can't  camp  here." 

For  answer,  de  Gys  pointed  to  a  natural  landing-place, 
platform  of  rock  carved  by  the  stream  from  the  cliffs  of  its 
south  bank.  From  this  platform  the  semblance  of  a  trail 
led  up  the  cliff-face  to  an  overhanging  ledge  of  basalt. 

123 


124  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Been  here  before?"  asked  the  Long'un. 

"Once:  fifteen  years  ago."  De  Gys  gave  a  signal  to  the 
steersman,  who  shouted  in  response.  The  polers  bent  to  their 
work,  edging  the  long  canoe  to  land.  "Hi-yi,"  "Hi-yi," 
"Hoo-ai-yi,"  sang  the  polers:  and  Si-tuk,  who  had  been 
asleep  in  the  cabin,  woke  as  the  weasel  wakes;  came  shuffling 
forward. 

"O  great  ones,"  began  Si-tuk,  "this  is  not  a  fit  place 
to  pass  the  night.  One  li,  two  li  farther  on,  is  a  village, 
a  good  village  of  the  white  Thais.  There  we  shall  find  food, 
good  food,  eggs  and  chickens  and  a  succulent  porker.  There, 
we  shall  sleep  under  a  sound  roof.  Shall  I  give  the  order  to 
go  on,  great  ones?" 

De  Gys,  leaning  gingerly  against  the  arch  of  the  cabin, 
glanced  down  at  the  wizened  face  and  smiled. 

"No,  Si-tuk.  My  order  is  already  given.  The  polers 
are  weary.  To-night  we  camp  here." 

Grumbling,  the  dwarf  withdrew  into  the  cabin.  Beamish 
and  Dicky,  crouching  in  discomfort  at  the  Frenchman's  feet, 
looked  up  simultaneously,  asked  the  same  question:  "Did 
he  protest  much?" 

"He  will  protest  more  before  the  night's  out,"  answered 
Rene  de  Gys,  and  he  fingered  the  wreck  of  his  beard. 

So  they  came  to  land,  and  scrambled,  de  Gys  leading,  up 
the  trail;  and  stood,  three  weird  figures  in  their  cart-wheel 
hats  and  tattered  Oriental  clothing,  gazing  down  from  the 
ledge  of  basalt  at  the  angry  water  below. 

The  Laotian  boatmen  were  making  the  canoe  fast:  her 
bamboo  rafts  ground  and  bumped  against  the  cliff-side;  she 
tossed  and  strained  at  the  ropes  of  liana-fibre,  striving 
desperately  to  wrench  the  hitches  free  from  their  mooring- 
stones.  Phu-nan  had  begun  to  carry  the  scanty  baggage 
ashore.  The  first  raindrops  splattered  warningly  on  dusty 
rock. 

"  Hurry,"  shouted  de  Gys  hi  Laotian.  "  Tie  bow  and  stern 
with  double  ropes.  Bring  wood  for  the  cooking.  Here  are 
good  caves;  we  shall  sleep  dry  to-night." 

Ounkam  the  steersman,  a  great  bronzed  fellow,  tattooed  in 


SI-TUK  THE  DWARF 

the  old  manner  from  knee  to  navel,  bawled  quick  reply: 
something  in  de  Gys'  voice  told  Ounkam  that  Si-tuk 's 
mastery,  hitherto  paramount,  was  over;  and  he  whispered 
to  his  companions  as  they  wrestled  with  the  hitches,  "Hurry: 
lest  the  anger  of  Gray  Beard  fall  upon  us." 

Meanwhile  Beamish  and  Dicky,  cured  of  his  fever  but  still 
weak,  explored  their  way  down  a  dark  burrow  which  the 
Frenchman  indicated;  found,  hollowed  in  the  naked  basalt, 
a  huge  dim  cavern,  dusty  of  floor,  its  roof  disappearing  up- 
wards into  sheer  blackness  which  baffled  the  eye. 

"Plenty  of  room,  anyway,"  said  the  Long'un,  striking  a 
sulphur  match.  "You  could  billet  a  couple  of  hundred  men 
here  easily." 

"Dry,  too."  Beamish  watched  the  blue  glow  kindle  to 
yellow;  felt  the  near  wall  with  anxious  finger-tips. 

Outside,  they  heard  the  Frenchman  giving  orders.  A 
crawling  figure  blocked  the  entrance  of  the  burrow,  ma- 
terialized into  Phu-nan,  heavy-laden  with  mattresses  and 
cooking-pots.  Followed  Si-tuk,  toting  a  bag  of  rice,  an 
earthenware  jar;  Ounkam  with  a  cord  of  wood;  the  polers, 
bundles  in  their  arms,  still  sweating  from  their  labours; 
lastly  de  Gys,  hat  off,  his  bleached  hair  already  rain- 
sopped. 

"Make  fire,"  commanded  de  Gys.  "Cook  rice.  And 
you" — one  of  the  Laotians  had  drawn  a  dirty  opium-pipe 
from  his  loin-cloth — "  do  not  smoke  but  return  to  the  boat  for 
more  wood.  Bring  also  that-thing-which-sees-many-miles 
and  the  box  of  poisons." 

Submissive,  the  man  went  out.  Five  minutes  later  when 
he  came  back  with  the  telescope  and  the  medicine-case  (sole 
salvage  of  their  lost  equipment)  and  a  second  cord  of  dry 
wood,  a  fire  was  already  blazing  in  the  centre  of  the  cavern. 


Throughout  their  simple  meal  of  eggs  and  rice-chupatties 
Si-tuk — banished  with  Phu-nan  and  the  crew  to  the  far  side 
of  the  fire — had  been  scrutinizing  his  white  charges.  They 
seemed,  to  the  drawfs  mind,  unconscionably  merry;  their 


126  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

eyes,  especially  those  of  the  "Long  Ingrit"*  (Dicky)  kept 
looking  towards  him.  Then  they  would  chuckle  together, 
like  men  in  possession  of  a  secret. 

Si-tuk  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  His  Oriental  mind 
sensed  loss  of  prestige  with  the  boatmen,  hostility  from 
Phu-nan.  It  was  high  time,  he  decided,  to  re-inforce 
authority.  " Luckily,"  mused  Si-tuk,  "they  are  not  armed; 
I  alone  among  these  men  possess  a  weapon,  therefore,  though 
small,  I  am  still  their  master";  and  he  rose  from  his  seat  by 
the  fire,  a  malevolent  shape  above  the  curling  smoke;  came 
shuffling  forward. 

"O  Excellencies,"  began  Si-tuk,"  it  seems  to  me  that  this 
is  a  good  place  for  the  renewal  of  disguises.  The  Long 
Ingrit 's  splendid  features  need  the  dye,  and  the  great  pha- 
langs&s  beard  again  shows  red  at  the  roots.  Shall  I  not 
bid  the  savages  retire  to  the  far  corner  of  the  cave  while  I 
prepare  the  scissors  and  the  stains?" 

De  Gys,  stretched  full  length  on  his  straw  mattress, 
answered  smoothly,  "Go  back  to  your  place  with  the  other 
coolies,  dwarf."  The  Long  Ingrit,  seated  with  his  back 
against  the  rock,  understood  the  last  word,  and  laughed. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  firelight  Phu-nan  watched  the  scene 
with  wary  eyes. 

"I  am  not  a  coolie,"  remonstrated  Si-tuk,  "and  I  will  sit 
no  more  among  those  savages.  The  great  phalangsS  is 
foolish.  His  beard  will  betray  him  ere  two  days  are  out." 
He  changed  tongue  suddenly  from  the  Mandarin  of  China  to 
Laotian  of  Luang-prabang.  "And  it  is  not  good,  Man  with 
the  Gray  Beard,  that  you  should  give  yourself  airs  of  author- 
ity." 

At  that  the  boatmen  pricked  up  their  ears;  but  Rene 
de  Gys  only  laughed. 

"Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  little  one,"  laughed  Rene  de  Gys,  and 
he ,  too,  spoke  the  Laotian.  "Do  monkeys  then  command 
men  on  the  Nam  Khane?" 

"Man  or  monkey" — the  dwarf's  face  wrinkled  with  fury — 

*lngrit — English. 


SI-TUK  THE  DWARF  127 

"I  and  none  other  command  here."    And  he  drew  back  a 
step,  fumbling  in  his  sleeve. 

Phu-nan  alone  saw  that  movement;  Phu-nan  alone  under- 
stood it.  While  the  dwarf  yet  stood,  fumbling  in  the  fire- 
light, ere  Dicky  or  Beamish  could  sense  the  crisis,  or  de 
Gys  spring  to  his  feet,  the  Moi's  fingers  had  jerked  pistol 
from  loin-cloth,  torn  at  the  trigger.  .  .  . 

Came  a  great  crimson  flash,  sound  and  blackness,  reek  of 
cordite.  Dicky,  face  down  by  instinct,  glimpsed  a  second 
flash,  a  third;  heard  more  explosions;  heard  the  old  scream 
and  splunk  of  close-range  bullets;  heard  howls  from  beyond 
the  firelight;  felt  something  wriggle  over  his  outstretched 
arm;  gripped  it  as  it  wriggled.  .  .  . 

Followed  a  second's  utter  silence;  then  de  Gys'  voice. 

"Idiot!"  roared  de  Gys.  "Dirty  savage!  Espece  de 
journal!" 

Dicky,  fingers  firm  on  the  wriggling  thing  which  he  now 
realized  to  be  one  of  Si-tuk's  legs,  rose  to  his  feet,  heaving 
the  dwarf  up  with  him;  De  Gys,  a  pistol  in  one  hand,  was 
clouting  Phu-nan  about  the  ears  with  the  other.  The 
Laotians  crouched,  panic-stricken,  in  the  farthest  shadows. 
Si-tuk's  leg  gave  one  frantic  wrench;  something  dropped  with 
a  clatter  of  steel  to  the  floor.  Beamish,  apparently  unhurt, 
picked  it  up. 

"Any  one  hit?  "  The  old  trench-question  rose  automatically 
to  the  Long'un's  lips. 

"No!"  shouted  de  Gys.  "This  fool,  this  thrice-damned 
fool  of  mine  couldn't  hit  an  elephant."  And  again  he  clouted 
the  unfortunate  Moi  about  the  ears,  howling,  "Why  did  you 
shoot,  species  of  an  idiot?  Why  did  you  shoot?" 

"Ne  battez  pas.  Ne  battez  pas,"  stammered  Beamish. 
"II  avail  raison  de  lirer" 

The  Frenchman  looked  up;  saw  Beamish  holding  out  a 
revolver,  Si-tuk  hanging  head  down  from  the  Long'un's 
outstretched  arm. 

"A  miracle,"  said  de  Gys,  who  thought  that  the  dwarf  was 
dead,  and  he  left  off  beating  Phu-nan.  "It  must  have  been 
the  last  shot.  His  first  two  certainly  missed." 


128  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

But  now  the  dwarf,  half -crazed  with  fear,  began  wriggling 
again,  kicking  out  with  his  free  leg,  paddling  furiously  with 
his  paws  against  the  Long'un's  knees.  Long'un  gathered  in 
the  free  leg  with  his  other  hand;  held  wriggling  bundle 
high. 

"Tell  him  to  be  quiet,"  shouted  the  Long'un,  "or  I'll  drop 
him  in  the  fire."  He  drove  his  knee  up  into  the  wizened  face, 
swung  it  above  the  blaze.  Si-tuk  shrieked. 

"Don't  kill  him,"  protested  Beamish. 

"Kill  him?"— Dicky  laughed— " Killing's  too  good  for  the 
little  vermin";  and  he  began  to  sing,  "Hush-a-bye  baby  on 
the  tree-top,  when  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  shall  drop." 
Each  time  Dicky  came  to  the  w^ord  "drop,"  Si-tuk's  eyes 
caught  a  glimpse  of  crackling  flame,  Si-tuk's  eyebrows  felt 
the  scorch  of  red  heat. 

But  soon  Dicky's  temper  cooled,  his  arms  tired.  "  Catch ! " 
he  called;  and  flung  the  ragged  bundle  clean  across  the  fire. 
It  landed  face  downwards  in  de  Gys '  arms;  and  de  Gys,  drop- 
ping his  pistol,  started  in  to  spank  it — till  the  wrinkled  lips 
shrieked  again,  and  the  Laotians,  gathering  courage,  crept 
back  to  laugh  their  fill. 

"It  is  a  monkey,"  chuckled  Ounkam  the  steersman. 

"No,"  chuckled  back  the  crew,  "it  is  no  monkey.  Hark, 
it  talks." 

For  now,  between  spank  and  spank,  de  Gys  was  asking 
terse  questions  in  Chinese. 

"Who  commands  here,  little  one?" 

"Thou  commandest,  Excellency." 

"Does  the  Long  Ingrit  also  command,  monkey?" 

"Yes,  Excellency." 

"And  the  doctor?" 

"Even  so,  Excellency." 

"And  thou"— spank— "what  art  thou?"— spank— "a 
coolie?" — spank — "lower  than  a  coolie?" 

"Even  as  thou  sayest,  Excellency." 

When  at  last  de  Gys  set  the  dwarf  on  its  feet,  tears,  tears  of 
pain  and  rage,  streamed  down  its  yellow  face.  "Tie  him 
with  the  wood-cords,"  ordered  the  Frenchman  to  Phu-nan, 


SI-TUK  THE  DWARF  129 

"and  bring  him  over  to  me  when  I  call."    He  picked  up  his 
pistol,  leaped  the  fire,  rejoined  Dicky  and  Beamish. 


Squatting  on  their  rice-straw  mattresses,  reek  of  cor- 
dite still  in  their  nostrils,  boat's-crew  peering  at  them 
through  the  dwindling  wood-smoke,  the  three  held  con- 
ference. 

"At  least,"  said  the  Long'un,  fingering  Si-tuk's  revolver, 
"  we  are  now  armed."  He  snapped  the  breach  open,  regarded 
the  six  cartridges  thankfully. 

"Aye."  De  Gys  slipped  the  magazine  from  his  recovered 
pistol.  "We  are  armed — with  nine  shots  between  us.  A 
vast  munitionment !  Let  us  ascertain  how  this  plaything 
came  into  Phu-nan's  possession." 

They  summoned  the  Moi ;  cleared  up  the  mystery.  "  I  was 
wrong,"  admitted  the  brown  man.  "I  should  have  given  the 
master  back  his  weapon.  But  I  was  afraid  of  the  dwarf:  the 
dwarf  prowls  much  at  night:  he  searches  the  masters' 
garments  while  they  sleep." 

"Go  back,  faithless  one,"  growled  de  Gys,  "and  bring  the 
dwarf  hither." 

But  when  Si-tuk,  bound  hand  and  foot,  stood  before 
them,  the  Frenchman  did  not  refer  to  that  midnight  prowling 
for  fear,  lest  by  so  doing,  he  might  betray  Beamish.  In- 
stead, he  gave  orders  to  unbind  the  thing;  peered  sternly 
into  its  wizened  face  on  which  the  tears  of  rage  and  shame 
had  not  yet  dried. 

"Listen,  Si-tuk,"  said  Rene  de  Gys,  "what  is  past  is 
past.  Let  there  be  no  more  presumption." 

The  dwarf  scowled  at  them,  made  no  answer. 

"And  no  more  of  this  disguising.  The  country  of  the 
phalangsS  lies  behind  us.  Behind  us — remember  that,  little 
one.  Therefore,  so  soon  as  these  stains  of  yours  fade,  we  will 
travel  as  white  men.  And  remember  another  thing,  Si-tuk: 
Not  only  the  country  of  the  phalangst,  but  his  law  also,  lies 
behind  us.  Here,  I  make  the  law."  The  Frenchman 
stretched  out  one  leg-of-mutton  hand,  gripped  the  dwarf 


130  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

by  the  neck.  "And  whoso  breaks  my  law,  dies  quickly.  Is 
it  understood  between  us,  Si-tuk?" 

Tearful  face  wrinkled  dumbly  between  the  Frenchman's 
thumb  and  forefinger. 

"Is  it  understood,  Si-tuk?" 

"Yes,  great  one." 

"Then  return  to  the  other  coolies." 

Humbly,  the  dwarf  shuffled  away  beyond  the  fire-glow, 
out  of  sight. 

"Did  you  ask  him  about  the  way  to  Harinesia?"  queried 
Dicky. 

"No."  De  Gys,  once  more  his  old  self,  plucked  hopefully 
at  gray  beard.  "It  would  be  useless — unless  we  tortured 
him.  And  our  Socialist  friend  would  hardly  approve  of 
that." 

"The  end  justifies  the  means,"  put  in  Beamish;  and  Dicky 
nodded  approval.  But  the  Frenchman  only  laughed. 

"Calm  yourselves,  my  friends.  Torture  is  the  talk  of 
empty  stomachs,  not  of  wise  brains.  In  three  days,  four  at 
latest,  we  shall  meet  Pu-yi's  caravan.  If  Harinesia  exists, 
Si-tuk  will  show  them  and  us  the  way  to  it.  And  I  think," 
he  added,  "that  Harinesia  does  exist,  that  the  Flower 
Folk  .  .  ."  Sentence  trailed  off  into  silence,  head 
nodded. 

"I  am  sleepy,"  muttered  de  Gys,  'very,  very  sleepy." 
He  arranged  his  vast  bulk  on  the  mattress,  turned  his  face  to 
the  rock.  The  Long'un,  equally  weary,  followed  the  good 
example. 

But  Cyprian  Beamish  could  not  sleep.  Beamish 's  brain 
desired  its  anodyne.  There  were  still  eight  beans,  eight 
beautiful  purple  beans,  in  Melie's  snuff-box.  .  .  .  How 
cold  it  was  in  this  dim  cavern,  how  miserable.  .  .  .  How 
the  rain  pelted  outside.  .  .  .  He  must  escape  from  the 
cold,  from  the  rain,  and  the  misery,  escape  for  one  blessed 
hour.  .  .  .  Would  the  glow  never  die  out  of  that 
accursed  fire?  .  .  .  He  must  wait — wait  till  the  Laotians 
snored.  .  .  .  And  Si-tuk?  Last  time  Si-tuk  had  nearly 
caught  him.  .  .  .  De  Gys  and  the  Long'un  had  been 


SI-TUK  THE  DWARF  131 

very  cruel  to  Si-tuk.  ...  In  the  Land  of  the  Flower 
nobody  was  cruel. 

The  last  glow  died  out  of  the  wood-heap;  the  rain  outside 
had  stopped.  Darkness!  Darkness,  and  the  breathing  of 
men  asleep!  Very  quietly  Cyprian  Beamish  rose  to  his 
knees;  crawled  across  the  floor.  His  hand  found  De  Gys' 
sleeve,  fingered  it,  groped  out  the  snuff-box.  .  .  . 

He  was  back  on  his  own  mattress.  .  .  .  The  bean  felt 
cold  between  his  teeth.  .  .  .  He  crushed  the  bean  to 
particles. 

Darkness  and  the  breathing  of  men  asleep!  But,  clear 
light  through  the  darkness,  clear  music  above  the  breath  of 
the  sleeping  men,  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  saw  the 
land  of  his  soul's  desire,  heard  the  unearthly  songs  of  a  future 
day.  .  .  .  "Jolly,"  murmured  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.  D., 
Glasgow.  .  .  . 


And  all  through  the  chill  of  dawn,  breaking  camp,  repack- 
ing the  canoe,  casting-off  her  moorings;  all  next  day  as 
the  Laotians  poled  them,  foot  by  painful  foot,  up  the  head- 
long turbid  waters  of  the  Nam  Khane;  all  next  night  in  their 
wet  bivouacs  by  the  grumbling  stream,  glory  of  the  Flower 
remained  with  Cyprian  Beamish,  comforting  him  in  discom- 
fort, urging  him  on:  even  as,  in  de  Gys'  mind,  glowing  and 
growing,  an  urge  and  a  consolation,  remained  the  memory 
of  Melie — Melie,  prototype  of  that  mysterious  folk  he  had 
sworn  to  rescue. 

But  Dicky,  still  shaky  with  the  after-effects  of  fever,  Dicky, 
hating  the  filth  and  the  moist  heat  and  the  flies,  had  neither 
glory  of  the  Flower  nor  glory  of  Melie  for  spur  to  his  adven- 
turing. Girl  and  Flower  were  but  phantoms  of  his  memory, 
remote  as  the  civilization  they  had  left  behind.  Remained 
to  him  only  the  faith — Faith  in  the  word  once  plighted  to  his 
friend. 

So  they  poled  on,  foot  by  foot,  for  three  whole  weary  days; 
through  blinding  sunshine,  under  tropic  downpours;  past 
great  cliffs  where  trails  of  the  wild  Khas  ran  sheer  as  goat- 


132  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

tracks;  past  virgin  forest  of  teak  and  bamboo,  palm-trees  and 
liana;  past  scanty  jungle-hidden  villages  of  the  white  Thais, 
who  fled  at  their  approach;  past  rare  clearings  of  young  green 
rice,  or  Indian  corn  that  spired  already  fifteen  foot  above 
the  fat  alluvial  soil;  past  steamy  backwaters  of  sky-blue  lotus 
and  white  gigantic  water  lilies;  till  the  Nam  Khane  narrowed 
from  tumbling  flood  to  winding  streamlet  whose  creepers 
twined  gummy  tentacles  round  the  bending  poles. 

And  now  the  Nam  Khane  split  into  a  dozen  forest-blinded 
creeks;  and  now  even  de  Gys'  woodcraft  was  at  fault;  and 
now  even  Ounkam  shook  perplexed  head,  memorizing  home- 
ward way,  as  he  bent  him  to  the  steering  oar;  and  now  the 
cramped  canoe  seemed  suddenly  enormous,  vast  ship  they 
heaved  with  weary  muscles  down  ever-narrowing  channels 
whose  rocks  and  riven  tree-trunks  blocked  the  grated  keel. 

But  always  Si-tuk,  perching  like  some  evil  figure-head  at 
the  very  nose  of  the  toiling  boat,  pointed  them  with  his  yellow 
paws  a  water-path  through  the  orchid  rotten  greenery. 

So  they  won  their  way  through  forest  to  a  great  lake  of 
brazen  water;  and  saw,  beyond  the  water,  square  peaks  of 
granite  towering  sable  against  an  angry  sunset,  and  at  water 's 
edge,  curling  gray  above  a  belt  of  gurjun  trees,  the  smoke  of 
campfires. 

Then  Ounkam  gave  vent  to  a  loud  whoop  of  joy,  and  the 
poles  rose  and  twirled  black  against  angry  skies  and  plunged 
black  to  brazen  water;  and  de  Gys  felt  the  heart  thud  in  his 
breast,  as  Si-tuk  the  Dwarf,  standing  upright  in  the  bow, 
called  shrill  from  ship  to  shore:  "N'ging!  N'ging!  We 
come  in  the  name  of  N'ging." 

But  when  at  long  last  they  made  the  land  and  stood  among 
the  company  which  awaited  them,  neither  the  Long'un  nor 
the  doctor  saw  any  cause  for  joy.  For  round  the  three 
adventurers,  still  in  their  tattered  Eastern  gear,  the  dye  half- 
worn  from  their  emaciated  faces,  there  foregathered  as 
murderous  a  band  of  Oriental  villains  as  ever  clanked  well- 
earned  chains  in  Pulau  Condore  or  the  Andamans.  Yunna- 
nese  there  were — shaven  of  head,  bony  of  finger,  pig-tails 
flopping  greasily  against  greasy  coatees;  little  evil  pock- 


SI-TUK  THE  DWARF  133 

marked  Annamites,  and  crafty  yellow  men  from  Tonkin;  a 
huge  hairy  Malay,  krees  in  loin-cloth.  And  every  man  of 
that  villainous  company  carried  his  gun — flintlock  or  firelock, 
blunderbuss  or  breech-loader. 

However,  at  a  word  from  Si-tuk  the  crowd  parted;  and  a 
lanky  Chinaman,  obviously  guide,  led  way  past  the  smoke  of 
cooking-pots  and  braying  mules  and  piles  of  clumsy  white- 
feathered,  red-tasselled  harness,  to  a  rough  pole-and-branch 
shelter  under  the  gurjun  trees.  And  there,  weary  with 
travel,  they  ate  their  first  hot  meal  for  many  nights;  and, 
learning  that  they  must  start  at  dawn,  fell  thankfully  asleep. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWELFTH 

The  Gates  of  Harinesia 


'H  P^HE  "ten  days"  of  Pu-yi's  message  lengthened  into  a 
fortnight,  but  still  the   caravan  marched  on.     Long 

A  since  de  Gys  had  lost  his  last  bearing,  a  sombre  peak 
whose  cone  dwindled  behind  them  for  three  successive  dawns. 
Long  since  they  were  across  the  borders  of  the  Muong  Sip 
song  chau  thais,  somewhere  between  Hua  Pahn  and  the 
Ha  Tang  Hoc. 

It  had  been  a  terrible  journey;  up  blind  trails,  rock-strewn 
and  rain-sodden,  where  the  laden  mules  slithered  and  stum- 
bled as  the  yellow  men  thwacked  at  their  haunches  and  the 
water-gourds  titupped  gurgling  against  pack-saddles;  up 
through  belts  of  thick  deodar  and  scraggy  pine  to  freezing 
bivouacs  at  edge  of  the  abyss;  down  again,  mules  sliding 
on  their  haunches,  draggled  feathers  of  their  brow-bands 
horizontal  to  the  slope,  muzzles  of  the  yellow  men's  blunder- 
busses clink-clinking  against  the  overhung  cliff,  to  steamy, 
valleys,  water-logged  among  jungle;  forward  again,  last 
medicines  exhausted,  down  mud-paths  fetlock-deep  in  red 
slime,  through  belts  of  green  cactus  whose  fat  prickly  hands 
bled  white  at  lop  of  the  slicing-sword;  upwards  once  more,, 
hail  beating  like  bullets  on  their  sun-hats,  to  sleep  in  sodden  < 
garments  and  wake,  pain-racked,  amid  the  reek  of  mule-' 
dung;  downwards  once  more,  sun-scorched  and  parching,! 
heat  of  high  noon  beating  at  them  like  hammer  strokes  from ' 
the  naked  rock.  j 

But  now  they  were  through  the  mountains,  winding  their' 
way  across  a  swelling  plain  of  elephant-grass  whose  myriad 
stems  glistened  like  spear-points  in  the  hot  light  of  a  new- 
risen  sun. 

134 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  135 

At  the  head  of  the  column,  a  grotesque  figure,  bare  feet 
dangling  below  rusty  stirrups,  chin-beard  sprouting  enor- 
mous red  between  false  gray  of  whisker-tips,  cart-wheel  hat 
tilted  back  from  scorched  brow,  rode  de  Gys.  Si-tuk  and 
Phu-nan,  one  on  either  side,  led  the  over-burdened  mule. 

Behind  came  the  Long  Ingrit,  whom  no  mule  could  carry; 
limping  on  iron-shod  stick;  his  white  face,  against  which  the 
yellow  gold  of  new  moustache  stood  out  in  unkempt  bristles, 
set  and  resolute.  Followed,  ten  yards  in  rear,  Beamish, 
perching  unhorsemanly  on  peaked  saddle;  and  behind  Bea- 
mish, sinuous  line  of  nodding  brow-band  feathers  and 
slanted  gun-barrels  above  the  elephant-grass,  the  caravan. 

Higher  and  hotter  over  their  heads  rose  the  sun;  higher 
and  thicker  about  the  track  they  followed  rose  the  elephant- 
grass.  No  wind  blew  across  that  vast  upwards-swelling  plain. 
Sweat  caked  on  the  ramshackle  harness  of  the  mules,  sweat 
poured  from  the  naked  breasts  of  the  marching  men.  And  all 
along  the  caravan,  black  clouds  at  mule's  ears  and  man's  ears, 
the  great  flies  of  the  tropics  took  their  toll  in  blood. 

With  a  frightful  effort  Dicky  overtook  his  leader. 

"Isn't  it  about  time  for  the  halt,  de  Gys?" 

"Half  an  hour  more,  friend."  The  Frenchman  slipped 
from  his  mule.  "And  then — then  if  that  yellow  louse  Si-tuk 
has  not  lied  to  me,  we  shall  see  The  Gates  of  Harinesia." 

"Don't  joke— it's  too  damned  hot."  De  Gys,  fearful  of 
rousing  false  hopes,  had  kept  the  dwarf's  over-night  intelli- 
gence a  secret  from  his  companions. 

"I'm  not  joking,  friend.  We  arrive,  I  tell  you.  We 
arrive." 

"It  seems  too  good  to  be  true,"  panted  Dicky,  but  now  real 
hope  gave  strength  to  his  limbs;  he  strode  forward,  head 
erect,  one  hand  busy  at  the  flies.  Beamish  hacked  his  mule; 
came  jogging  up. 

The  doctor — who  alone  of  the  three  still  wore  shoe-leather 
— had  not  distinguished  himself  during  their  march  across 
the  mountains;  had  become  strangely  querulous  and  un- 
sociable .  .  .  for,  as  de  Gys  well  knew,  there  were  no 
more  purple  beans  in  the  eighteenth-century  snuff-box. 


136  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"How  much  longer  is  this  damned  march  going  on?"  he 
snapped.  "For  ever?" 

De  Gys  called  a  question  to  Si-tuk;  and  Si-tuk  answered 
by  pointing  to  a  rise  in  the  track  just  ahead  of  them.  By 
now  the  grass  stood  six  clear  inches  above  Long'un's  head; 
but  as  the  track  rose,  it  thinned  suddenly;  dwindled;  ended. 

They  found  themselves — two  mules,  three  white  men,  a 
brown  savage,  and  a  yellow  dwarf — on  a  platform  of  sun- 
baked limestone,  long  and  narrow,  bare  as  the  bottom  of  a 
frying-pan  save  for  three  stunted  cedars  whose  roots  seemed 
sprung  from  the  blind  edge  of  sky. 

"Proceed,  great  ones,"  said  Si-tuk,  "and  look  upon  The 
Gates  of  Harinesia." 

De  Gys  unslung  his  telescope,  sprang  forward.  Dicky, 
with  a  hurried  "Come  on,  old  man — this  is  the  last  lap"  to 
Beamish,  limped  after  across  the  blazing  rocks;  peered 
over.  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  they  knew  mad  anticipation;  then  dis- 
appointment held  all  three  speechless.  The  crest,  a  false 
one,  dropped  six  poor  feet  to  a  moss-grown  basin  of  bubbling 
water:  below  that,  successive  terraces  of  limestone  led  step- 
like  to  a  great  sea  of  prairie  which  shimmered  dun  in  the  noon- 
day heat.  Across  this  prairie — narrow  yellow  ribbon  through 
its  dun  wastes — wound  the  track  of  a  watercourse;  and 
beyond,  at  watercourse's  end,  they  could  see,  walling  the 
prairie  from  horizon  to  horizon,  black  belts  of  forest-land. 
But  of  The  Gates,  of  those  brazen  lattices  which  had  walled  so 
many  a  dream,  never  a  glimmer  greeted  their  dazzled,  dis- 
appointed eyes. 

"It's  a  wash-out,"  growled  the  Long'un  at  last,  "an 
absolute  ruddy  wash-out."  Beamish,  oath  at  his  lips, 
turned  furiously  on  de  Gys. 

But  the  Frenchman  took  no  notice;  only  opened  his 
telescope  and  sighted  it  against  a  tree-trunk;  then,  after  care- 
ful scrutiny,  called  for  Si-tuk.  Dicky,  leaning  weary  on 
iron-shod  stick,  tried  to  follow  their  argument;  caught  the 
word  "Harinesia";  looked  at  his  friend. 

"Courage,  mon  ami,"  said  de  Gys,  and  went  on  with  his 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  137 

inquiry.  Behind,  the  caravan  had  halted;  a  knot  of  ill- 
accoutred  ruffians  joined  them,  started  in  to  jabber,  pointing 
fingers  and  gun-barrels  towards  the  prairie.  Soon  the 
inquiry  came  to  an  end;  Si-tuk  shuffled  back  across  the  rock- 
ledge,  disappeared  among  the  thick  grass. 

"Well?"  queried  Beamish,  irritably. 

"The  Gates,"  began  de  Gys  with  a  slow  smile,  "were  a 
figure  of  speech — Oriental  hyperbole.  Harinesia  lies  below 
us.  This  " — he  pointed  with  his  telescope  to  the  moss-grown 
basin  below — "is  the  source  of  the  Nam  Harin — Yellow 
River.  Yonder,  where  the  river  meets  the  forest,  yellow- 
island-country  begins."  And  without  more  ado  he  flung  a 
vast  arm  round  each  of  his  comrades,  kissing  now  one,  now 
the  other,  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  delight;  till  Dicky,  half- 
stifled  above  that  vast  embrace,  panted  "Easy  on,  friend; 
easy  on,  je  vous  prie"  and  Beamish,  grunting  like  a  fed  pig, 
felt  the  ribs  crack  under  his  tattered  clothes. 


Si-tuk  had  given  orders  to  water  the  mules  where  they 
stood  for  fear  of  the  sun;  and  in  a  little  while  the  muleteers 
came  to  fill  their  dumbbell-shaped  gourds  at  the  rock-basin; 
filed  back  into  the  elephant-grass.  But  the  three  adven- 
turers had  forgotten  both  sun  and  escort.  Their  eyes,  glued 
alternately  to  the  telescope,  saw  only  Harinesia — belt  of 
dark  trees  at  watercourse's  end  beyond  shimmering  dun  of 
the  prairie. 

And  when  at  length  Phu-nan  led  them  unwilling  down 
to  where,  by  the  babbling  water,  he  had  set  out  their  drink- 
ing-cups  and  scant  provisions  (for  by  now  the  rice  and  the  dried 
fish  were  almost  exhausted)  their  mouths  could  scarcely  eat 
for  discussing  the  little  they  knew  of  Harinesia — the  tale  that 
N'ging  the  Chinaman  told  between  his  opium-pipes  in  the 
great  gold-and-scarlet  room  of  Pu-yi's  mansion  at  Cholon. 

Some  of  that  tale  the  weary  months  had  almost  wiped 
from  de  Gys'  mind;  some  of  it  the  Long'un  found  difficult  to 
recall:  but  together  they  pieced  most  of  the  story  together 
again — remembering  Akiou  who  might  be  on  guard  at  The 


138  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Gates,  and  Pa-sif  and  Kun-mer  and  the  woman  Su-rah,  and 
the  third  arrow  after  which  they  must  go  on  alone. 

"Doesn't  quite  tally  with  Pu-yi's  last  message,"  specu- 
lated Dicky.  "  They  said  the  caravan  was  to  halt  two  bow- 
shots from  The  Gates.  How  far  is  a  bow-shot,  de  Gys?" 

"The  Moi  cross-bow  carries  sixty  yards,"  began  the 
Frenchman.  But  Beamish  took  no  part  in  the  argument 
which  ensued,  Beamish 's  Socialist  mind  being  far  above  such 
life-and-death  trivialities  as  the  cast  of  a  bow.  .  .  . 

So  they  finished  their  meagre  tiffin,  and  rolled  their  last 
pinches  of  Khas  Khouen  tobacco  in  their  last  slips  of  rice- 
paper;  and  being  told  by  Si-tuk  that  a  good  trail  led  down 
through  the  limestone  terraces,  gave  orders  to  renew  the 
march. 


All  afternoon  they  marched;  picking  anxious  way  down 
the  terraced  limestone,  till,  at  limestone's  foot,  they  struck 
a  sandy  track  across  the  sandy  prairie.  Now  track  greened 
as  it  met  the  young  river;  now,  cutting  a  river-bend,  dust 
parched  them;  now  they  followed  stream  again.  But  at  last 
the  stream  broadened,  flowed  straight  beside  the  track. 
Now  ahead  of  them  the  wall  of  trees — enormous  dipterocarpi 
— rose  near  and  nearer  against  a  falling  sun. 

"Two  kilometres  more?"  queried  de  Gys,  still  riding  at 
the  head  of  the  column. 

"Less,  I  should  say."  Dicky,  hand  held  straight  before 
his  eyes,  tried  to  measure  the  angle  tree-tops  made  with  the 
ground. 

"Great  ones,"  Si-tuk 's  voice  interrupted  discussion,  "we 
approach  the  camping-place." 

Six  hundred  yards  on  they  found  a  little  oasis  of  green, 
scolloped  by  a  drop  in  the  river-bank  from  the  sand  of  the 
plain. 

"We  are  now  two  bow-shots  from  The  Gates,"  announced 
the  dwarf;  and  he  pointed  anxiously  to  where,  still  almost  a 
mile  distant,  the  river — narrowing  band  of  gold  in  the  sunset 
— vanished  abruptly  between  stark  ebony  of  tree-boles. 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  139 

"Nonsense!"  rumbled  de  Gys;  and  rode  on. 

"Great  one" — yellow  paw  clutched  swiftly  at  the  French- 
man's bridle — "I  speak  truth.  See,  the  caravan  comes  no 
further.  They  fear  the  Bow,  great  one;  and  I,  I,  too,  am 
afraid." 

Dicky,  turning,  saw  that  only  Beamish  followed  them: 
one  by  one,  as  they  reached  the  oasis,  the  rest  had  halted; 
were  already  off-saddling. 

But  the  Frenchman,  with  one  swift  movement,  gathered 
the  dwarf  to  his  saddle;  rode  on  again.  Phu-nan,  plodding 
faithfully  at  mule-tail,  gave  a  sly  chuckle  of  amusement. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  savage,"  ordered  de  Gys;  and  so  they 
came  to  within  half  a  mile  of  The  Gates.  Here  the  French- 
man halted,  set  down  his  burden. 

"Are  you  still  afraid,  little  one?" 

"Aye."  The  dwarf,  pale  with  terror,  whined  and  cringed 
at  the  stirrup-iron.  "I  am  afraid."  His  paws  clutched 
despairingly  at  de  Gys'  feet.  "Let  me  go  back,  great  one. 
By  your  mother's  spirit,  let  me  go  back." 

Said  Beamish,  joining  them  at  full  trot:  "What  the  devil's 
the  matter,  Long'un?" 

"I  dunno.  Better  ask  de  Gys."  Dicky,  peering  forward 
along  the  track,  could  see  nothing  to  warrant  the  dwarf's 
obvious  terror.  For  eight  hundred  yards  the  ground — flat 
as  the  river  which  bisected  it — offered  no  possibility  of 
concealment.  Beyond,  from  the  dark  of  the  trees,  no 
smallest  sign  betrayed  an  enemy.  Yet  Si-tuk  might  have 
been  face  to  face  with  certain  death. 

Suddenly  de  Gys  dismounted;  handed  his  bridle  to  Phu- 
nan. 

"Take  my  beast,  and  the  beast  of  the  doctor  Sahib. 
Take  also  this  pistol.  We  three  go  forward.  The  dwarf 
remains.  If  he  moves  from  this  place,  either  forward  or 
backward,  kill.  If  aught  happens  to  one  of  us,  kill.  Is  it 
understood,  Phu-nan?" 

"Master,  it  is  an  order."  The  Moi  salaamed,  as  de  Gys 
translated  to  Si-tuk  and  the  Englishmen.  Then  they  three, 
de  Gys  leading,  went  forward  alone. 


140  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Lower  and  lower,  blinding  their  eyes,  fell  the  sun;  longer 
and  longer,  nearer  and  nearer,  dark  band  across  plain  and 
river,  sloped  the  shadow  of  the  forest.  Now  the  shadow 
almost  touched  them;  now  they  entered  the  shadow;  now 
they  saw,  five  hundred  yards  ahead,  black  against  blackness, 
the  full  height  of  those  enormous  trees.  Pillar  to  pillar,  the 
trees  rose;  above  their  unbroken  canopy  sky  reddened,  but 
through  them  no  gleam  of  light  revealed  the  sun:  black 
against  blackness,  they  stood;  and  at  their  feet,  the  river, 
abruptly  narrowing,  disappeared  in  gloom. 

De  Gys  halted  for  an  instant,  turned,  called  over  his 
shoulder,  "En  avant,  mes  amis";  took  one  step  forward — and 
stopped  paralyzed  in  his  tracks.  .  .  .  Incredibly,  with- 
out warning,  sliver  of  sound  out  of  the  blackness  ahead,  flash 
in  the  air  above,  the  thing  whistled  down  over  them,  vanished 
as  their  eyes  turned  to  follow  it,  re-appeared  again — sliver  of 
colour  aquiver  in  the  track  behind. 

"God  in  Heaven!"  said  Dicky,  "was  that  an  arrow?" 

Beamish,  gaze  hypnotized  in  rear,  made  no  answer;  but 
after  a  second's  silence  de  Gys  spoke. 

"One  begins  to  perceive,"  remarked  Rene  de  Gys,  "why 
our  friends  do  not  fetch  their  own  opium."  And  he  sprinted 
back  for  the  arrow,  wrenched  it  out  of  the  ground.  Doctor 
and  the  Long'un — curiosity  banishing  fear — followed  at  a 
run. 

The  missile  de  Gys  held  up  for  their  inspection  was  more 
than  a  yard  long — a  thin,  smooth  wand,  crimson-lacquered 
from  point  to  string-slot.  The  head,  of  hand-hammered 
steel  keen  as  a  needle,  curved  back  to  flat  double  barbs, 
razor-edged,  through  which  the  crimson  wood  tapered  to  an 
invisible  jointing:  the  feathers,  also  crimson,  and  stiff  as  pig's 
bristles,  were  bound  with  thin  crimson  twine,  lacquered-over 
and  slotted  to  the  shaft. 

"But,  damn  it,"  said  Dicky,  still  incredulous,  "we're  a  fair 
six  hundred  yards  from  the  trees.  No  bow  in  the  world  has 
half  that  range." 

"Your  own  at  Crecy" — de  Gys  might  have  been  back  in 
the  Middle  Ages — "cast  the  full  four  hundred.  And  this 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  141 

must  have  been  loosed  from  the  tree-tops.  I  feel  I  remember 
the  twang,  faint  and  high,  very  high  up  above  my  head." 

"Supposing  they  have  another  shot,"  interrupted  Beamish 
— and  brought  back  fear  with  the  words.  In  silence  the 
three  looked  down  at  the  arrow,  back  to  Phu-nan  and  Si-tuk, 
motionless  beside  the  cropping  mules,  forward  along  the 
river.  Then  de  Gys  with  a  growled,  "Was  Negrini  a  braver 
man  than  I?"  began  to  move  slowly  forward. 

Dicky,  following  at  three  paces,  was  aware  of  shame.  Why 
should  a  Frenchman,  a  confounded  Frenchman,  take  the 
place  of  honour?  Beamish,  bringing  up  the  rear,  thought 
only  of  the  Arrow,  confusedly,  like  a  man  mazed  in  the  past. 
"Arrows,  what  have  I  to  do  with  arrows?  I  am  a  man  of 
peace." 

So  they  went,  eyes  a-search  among  the  branches,  ears 
tense,  towards  the  gloom  of  the  forest.  .  .  . 

This  time  the  invisible  foe  gave  warning;  all  three  heard 
the  twang  of  his  bow-string;  saw  the  arrow  curve  high  out  of 
the  gloom,  plunge  into  the  green  of  track  ahead. 

"Four  hundred  if  it's  an  inch,"  muttered  Dicky,  "and 
loosed  from  the  ground."  His  hand,  instinctively  at  belt, 
clutched  the  revolver-butt,  hesitated,  came  away  empty. 
"Useless,"  he  thought,  "absolutely  useless."  De  Gys,  stoop- 
ing only  to  gather  up  a  shaft  crimson  as  its  predecessor, 
stalked  on,  head  erect. 

Above  the  three  sky  darkled  to  carmine;  river  at  their 
feet  was  gurgling  blood.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came  to 
the  forest.  But  still  they  saw  no  foe.  Trees  baffled  their 
eyes.  Pillar  to  pillar  the  trees  rose — stockaded  blackness 
above  breast-high  jungle.  Trees  and  jungle — but  never  a 
man  in  sight.  .  .  . 

And  at  two  hundred  the  Bow  spoke  again.  A  sliver  of 
vivid  yellow  shot  up  out  of  the  jungle,  turned  silent  in  the 
air,  sung  down,  and  struck  quivering,  six  inches  from  de 
Gys'  feet. 

The  Frenchman  halted,  plucked  steel  from  turf.  "The 
third  arrow,"  he  said.  "Yellow  for  yellow-island-country. 
Now  I  go  on  alone." 


142  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"No!" — the  Long'un  drew  and  cocked  his  revolver — "  we 
go  together." 

"Put  back  your  weapon,  friend,  and  remember  Negrini's 
words:  'At  the  third  arrow,  go  forward  alone.'" 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  the  Long'un,  stubbornly.  But 
eventually,  realizing  protest  futile  and  the  danger  of  waiting 
at  least  as  great  as  that  of  going  forward,  he  yielded;  proffered 
the  cocked  weapon  with  a  curt,  "At  any  rate,  take  this." 

"Thanks,  mon  vieux — but  I  go  in  peace."  The  French- 
man waved  away  the  revolver-butt,  flung  down  the  three 
arrows,  strode  off.  Dicky  and  Beamish  watched  his  huge 
figure,  grotesque  as  a  bear  in  fancy  dress  under  the  cart- 
wheel hat,  pick  its  way  cautiously  down  the  river-bank, 
reach  the  forest,  and  disappear. 

De  Gys,  as  he  followed  the  river-bank,  was  conscious  only 
of  awe.  The  trees  ahead,  towering  higher  and  higher  with 
his  approach,  seemed  ready  to  fall  upon  him;  they  barred  his 
way,  menacing,  impenetrable,  set  about  with  impenetrable 
jungle.  River  at  his  feet  narrowed  and  narrowed,  sinking 
from  turbid  yellow  to  smooth  blackness  between  rising  banks; 
till,  just  beneath  the  over-arching  canopy  of  tree-crowns,  it 
dived  noiselessly  to  earth,  vanished  headlong. 

The  Frenchman  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing  down,  fasci- 
nated. River-banks  almost  touching  over-hung  an  ebony 
cable  of  convoluted  water,  which  disappeared,  swirl  on  solid 
swirl,  into  the  gloom  of  an  underground  cleft.  The  cable 
made  no  sound;  but  from  the  heart  of  the  cleft,  noise  came — 
rumble  as  of  distant  guns.  With  an  effort  de  Gys  tore  eyes 
and  feet  away,  marched  on. 

The  track,  striking  out  from  river-bank,  led  straight 
between  two  enormous  dipterocarpi  whose  boles,  big  and  solid 
as  houses,  brushed  the  shoulders  in  passing.  These  passed, 
de  Gys  found  himself  in  a  tunnel  of  hacked  jungle,  dark  like 
night. 

Miles  and  miles  above  his  head  faint  specks  of  red  glim- 
mered star-like;  in  front,  the  tunnel  seemed  to  zig-zag.  He 
groped  along  the  tunnel,  feeling  his  way  with  outstretched 
hands,  feeling  here  the  gummy  tentacles  of  some  hacked 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  143 

creeper,  here  the  flat  of  a  leaf,  there  the  long,  curved  rough  of 
some  gigantic  bole;  emerged  without  warning  into  red  light. 

He  was  standing  in  a  vast  pit  whose  walls  were  straight 
black  tree-trunks,  whose  ragged  roof  was  crimson  sky.  In 
the  centre  of  the  pit,  eighty  yards  across  its  sandy  floor,  rose 
a  house — a  long,  low  structure,  black  as  the  trees,  windowless, 
curly-gabled.  Advancing,  de  Gys  saw,  cut  here  and  there 
irregularly  from  the  blank,  forbidding  face  of  the  house, 
groups  of  arrow-slits;  and  between  the  arrow-slits,  doors. 

As  he  came  nearer  one  of  the  doors  slid  back  on  silent 
runners,  and  there  emerged  from  the  doorway  a  man — a 
little  yellow  man  clad  cap-a-pie  in  brazen  armour,  who 
carried  a  great  bow  in  one  naked  hand,  and  in  the  other, 
which  was  curiously  gauntleted,  an  arrow. 

Wordlessly,  the  little  man  fitted  string-slot  to  bow-string; 
raised  bow  shoulder-high;  flexed  it  to  full  cast;  and  so  stayed, 
motionless,  eyes  and  point  steady  at  de  Gys'  heart. 

From  other  doors  six  other  bowmen  followed,  and  each,  as 
he  emerged,  took  station  by  his  fellow — till  the  Frenchman 
stood  helpless  in  a  semi-circle  of  flexed  bows  and  gleaming 
arrow-points. 

Then  from  the  centre  doorway  of  that  strange  fortalice 
came  forth  Akiou,  Captain  of  the  Guard  at  The  Gates !  He 
was  taller  by  a  good  three  inches  than  any  of  his  bowmen. 
From  his  brazen  casque  nodded  the  yellow  plume  of  cap- 
taincy. His  face,  too,  was  yellow,  but  the  straight  nose, 
square  forehead,  and  full  lips  gave  him  an  almost  European 
cast  of  countenance.  Only  high  cheekbones  and  the  crafti- 
ness of  deep-set  eyes  betrayed  Mongolian  origin. 

Akiou  wore  the  full  Harinesian  harness :  shoulder-pieces  and 
breast-plate  of  thin  hammered  brass,  bracer  on  right  forearm, 
skirt  of  chain-mail.  Brazen  greaves  and  fluted  sollerets* 
cased  yellow  limbs  from  bare  knees  downwards.  From  the 
belt  round  his  middle  hung  a  throwing-axe  and  a  straight 
thin  sword,  hilt-looped,  scabbardless  for  sign  of  duty;  from 
his  shoulders  dangled  a  full  quiver  of  crimson  shafts.  And 

*Armour  for  the  feet. 


144  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

like  his  men  he  carried  the  Long-bow  of  Harinesia,  the  Great 
Bow  which  guards  The  Gates. 

But  Akiou 's  bow  was  not  flexed.  He  stood,  curled  finger- 
tips of  gauntleted  left  on  sword-hilt,  gazing  up  into  the 
steady  red-brown  eyes  under  the  cart-wheel  straw  hat,  at  the 
quiet  beard  and  the  huge,  unshifting  shoulders  of  Rene  de  Gys. 
And  Akiou,  Captain  of  the  Guard,  thought  to  himself,  "By 
the  sacred  drum  in  Ko-nan's  Temple,  a  giant  of  the  Bloo 
Loy."  Then  he  gave  signal  to  his  soldiers,  so  that  bows  un- 
flexed  and  shafts  hung,  points  downwards,  from  loosened 
strings. 

"I  am  Akiou."  To  de  Gys'  utter  astonishment  the 
language  was  "Mandarin" — the  guttural  Mandarin  of  lower 
Yunnan.  "Do  you  speak  this  Kwan-hwa  (court-language), 
stranger?  " 

"Aye,"  answered  de  Gys;  and  giving  his  name,  which 
Akiou  repeated,  began  to  pay  the  usual  compliments.  But 
Akiou  cut  him  short. 

"We  of  the  Bow  deal  not  in  crooked  speeches.  From 
whom  come  you,  and  on  what  errand?" 

"From  N'ging.  On  N'ging's  errand.  He,  being  dead, 
sends  us  with  greetings." 

"It  is  good."  Akiou,  with  a  wave  of  upcurled  fingers, 
dismissed  the  guard,  who  vanished,  harness  a-rattle,  into  the 
house.  "Does  the  caravan  bring  that  for  which  our  Man- 
darins at  City  Bu-ro  barter  the  labour  of  the  field-workers?" 

"You  mean  the  silver?"  De  Gys,  still  dumfounded,  spoke 
irresolutely — eyeing  his  weird  host. 

"Aye— the  silver." 

"We  bring  twelve  cases." 

"Also  good — for  the  Mandarins."  Akiou  hesitated. 
"Though  you,  as  I  think,  are  no  Mandarin.  You,  for  all 
your  woman's  clothes,  are  a  soldier.  Therefore,  soldier  to 
soldier,  greetings!"  Akiou  raised  his  right  arm,  elbow  out- 
wards, in  a  salute  which  de  Gys  tried  his  best  to  copy.  As 
he  did  so  the  sleeve  of  the  Frenchman's  coatee  slipped  back, 
revealing  the  healed  gash  of  a  shell-wound. 

Said  Akiou — salute  concluded — eyeing  the  scar,  "The 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  145 

dead  N'ging  bore  no  such  honourable  marks.  But  you  and  I 
are  of  the  same  trade." 

So  those  two  stood,  appraising  each  other.  Above, 
ragged  roof  of  sky  darkled  to  carmine;  from  the  house 
sounded  voices  of  men  unarming,  the  clang  of  dropped 
harness.  After  a  full  minute  de  Gys  spoke : 

"The  caravan  has  no  more  food.  My  two  friends,  those 
who  were  with  me  when  you  shot  over  us,  wait  anxiously. 
Also,  it  grows  late." 

"I  will  send  a  guide  for  your  friends.  The  caravan  shall 
be  fed.  N'ging's  dwarf,  too" — Akiou  laughed,  displaying 
square  teeth,  white  as  ivory — "is  anxious.  N'ging's  dwarf 
must  rejoin  the  caravan.  Is  that  brown  man  with  him 
your  servant?" 

"Aye." 

"The  servant  can  come  also.  But  neither  he,  nor  the 
taller  of  your  friends,  may  bring  their  fire-weapons." 
("Their  look-outs  don't  seem  to  have  missed  much,"  thought 
Rene  de  Gys.)  "Is  that  thing  on  your  shoulder  also  a  fire- 
weapon?"  Upcurled  finger-tips  indicated  the  telescope. 
"No?  Then  you  may  keep  it.  Now,  write  quickly,  if  you 
have  writing  things — otherwise,  take  mine."  The  Hari- 
nesian  produced  from  his  belt  a  leaf  of  palmetto,  slab  of 
Indian  ink,  and  a  tiny  brass-handled  brush  which  he  moist- 
ened with  his  tongue  before  offering.  Taking  these,  de  Gys 
began  to  brush  in  French  characters  on  the  leaf:  "Smith, 
the  doctor  and  Phu-nan  to  follow  the  messenger.  Si-tuk 
and  mules  to  rejoin  the  column.  Rations  will  be  sent. 
Cache  the  fire-arms." 

Akiou  gave  a  low  whistle,  and  a  bare-footed  boy,  dressed 
in  coatee  and  trousers  of  yellow  cotton,  carrying  neither 
arms  nor  armour,  came  running  from  the  house.  De  Gys, 
looking  up  from  his  work,  heard  for  the  first  time  the  lan- 
guage of  Harinesia — short,  clipped  gutturals,  harsh  and 
spoken  low  in  the  throat.  Somehow,  they  sounded  un- 
pleasantly familiar  to  Rene  de  Gys.  Message  written, 
Akiou  handed  it  to  the  boy,  who  saluted  with  raised  arm, 
dashed  off  at  full  speed. 


146  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"And  now,"  said  Akiou,  fidgeting  with  his  long-bow,  "I, 
too,  must  send  a  message — to  our  precious  Mandarins." 
And  he  clanked  off  to  the  house,  leaving  Rene  de  Gys  alone 
in  the  growing  dusk. 

"A  strange  man,"  thought  Rene  de  Gys,  "and  a  strange 
country.  If  the  Tong  means  to  murder  us,  those  arrows" 
.  .  .  And  he  shivered  on  his  unshod  feet,  remembering  the 
semi-circle  of  flexed  bows,  the  gleaming  barbs,  and  the 
gleaming  eyes  above  them.  Then  he  shivered  again — for 
suddenly,  weirdly,  from  behind  the  guard  house,  sound  issued 
— a  tumult  of  strange  sound  that  filled  the  forest,  died  to 
echo,  re-echoed,  rose  again. 

"Signalling,"  thought  de  Gys.  But  he  could  not  see  the 
signaller — the  little  yellow  man,  elephant-conch  at  his  lips, 
who  blew  the  stranger-call  of  Harinesia.  All  adown  the 
forest  that  call  boomed;  all  adown  the  Harin  River  others  of 
the  Bow,  conches  at  their  lips,  took  it  up,  booming  on  the 
message  to  City  Bu-ro — till  Kunmer  heard  it  as  he  sat  at 
meat,  and  Pa-sif  among  his  houris  and  the  woman  Su-rah, 
tiring  for  the  night,  at  her  yamen  window.  .  .  . 


"He's  been  gone  a  hell  of  a  time,"  said  the  Long'un. 

"Hope  he's  all  right."  Beamish  looked  anxiously  at  the 
trees,  already  bole-deep  in  river-mist;  saw  the  messenger's 
running  figure.  "Hello.  Here  comes  somebody." 

The  Long'un,  finger  on  trigger,  covered  the  boy;  realized 
him  unarmed;  let  him  approach;  took  the  leaf;  read  de  Gys' 
message. 

"Cache  the  fire-arms,"  groused  the  Long'un;  "that's  a 
nice  sort  of  order.  However,  it's  got  to  be  done,  I  suppose. 
You  wait  here,  Beamish."  And  he  loped  off  down  the  track, 
returning  in  a  few  minutes  with  Phu-nan. 

The  four  of  them  set  off  down  the  river;  made  the  forest; 
dived,  guide  leading,  into  the  tunnel  of  hacked  jungle. 

"Rummy  place!"  grunted  the  Long'un,  groping  his  way 
somehow  through  the  murk. 

"Not  very  jolly,"  muttered  Beamish,  stumbling  over  a  root. 


THE  GATES  OF  HARINESIA  147 

But  "rummy"  and  " jolly "  seemed  very  inadequate  words 
when  they  emerged  at  last,  hot  and  dishevelled,  into  the 
clearing ! 

In  front  of  the  house,  flares — steady  torches  of  orange 
in  the  still  air — were  already  burning;  and  by  the  light  of 
these  flares,  the  two  saw  de  Gys  deep  in  converse  with  a 
mailed  yellow  man.  But  neither  Beamish  nor  the  Long'un 
gave  more  than  a  glance  at  Akiou's  weird  garb:  for,  by 
Akiou's  side,  one  huge  paw  playing  with  the  tip  of  his  sword, 
crouched  a  beast — a  beast  tabby  in  colour,  shaped  and  tailed 
and  whiskered  as  a  cat,  but  larger  than  the  largest  dog  ever 
bred  by  man.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTEENTH 

They  of  the  Bow 

THE  cat — it  was  a  cat,  though  huge  enough  for  a 
sabre-toothed  tiger — looked  up,  gleamy-eyed,  from 
its  play  with  Akiou's  sword;  whined  piercingly  at  the 
newcomers.  Akiou  struck  it  between  the  ears;  muttered 
some  guttural  command;  and  came  forward,  followed  by  de 
Gys. 

Ensued  presentations,  during  which  the  Long'un — lost  to 
all  sense  of  manners — could  hardly  take  his  eyes  off  the 
Harinesian;  while  Beamish,  who  prided  himself  on  being  a 
fellow  of  the  London  Zoological  Society,  stared  open- 
mouthed  over  Akiou's  mailed  shoulder  at  the  couched  form 
of  the  beast  now  playing  with  its  tail  under  one  of  the  flares ; 
and  Phu-nan,  certain  that  they  were  in  the  land  of  devils, 
sought  what  comfort  he  might  from  his  master's  presence. 

"Akiou  says,"  translated  de  Gys,  "that  you  are  both 
welcome,  that  message  of  our  coming  has  already  been  sent 
to  City  Bu-ro,  that  we  are  to  eat  and  sleep  here,  and  that 
in  the  morning  he  will  find  us  clothes." 

"What?"  said  Dicky.     "His  sort  of  clothes?" 

"I  suppose  so,  friend."  The  Frenchman  laughed. 
"Though  they  don't  seem  to  breed  men  of  your  size  and  mine 
in  Harinesia." 

The  same  thought  crossed  Akiou's  mind  as  he  gazed  up  at 
the  Long'un.  "With  a  score  of  bowmen  like  these  two," 
mused  the  Captain  of  The  Gates,  "the  dead  Emperor — upon 
whose  name  be  blessings — might  have  slain  the  prophet 
Kahl-ma  and  saved  yellow-island-country  from  the  Man- 
darins." And  he  chuckled  in  his  Oriental  heart,  thinking 
that  the  Feast  of  the  Bow  was  at  hand,  and  of  his  wager  with 

148 


THEY  OF  THE  BOW  149 

the  Captain  of  the  Guard  at  Inner  Gate.     But  these  things — 
being  a  Harinesian — Akiou  kept  to  himself. 

"There  is  rice,"  said  Akiou,  "and  tea  from  Puerh,  also 
a  peacock.  Come  quickly."  And  he  led  them,  between  the 
flares,  into  the  house.  The  cat,  again  whining,  followed  on 
soft  feet. 


Akiou 's  quarters  consisted  of  three  apartments,  each 
running  full  depth  of  the  curly-gabled  barracks.  The  first 
apartment,  entered  by  the  sliding  door  at  which  de  Gys  had 
originally  seen  him,  was  at  once  hall  and  armoury.  Here, 
on  pegs  of  blackbuck-horn  screwed  to  the  bare  black-wood 
wall,  hung  helmets;  swords;  throwing-axes ;  bracers ;  straight 
long-bows,  unstrung  seventy-three  inches  from  nock  to  nock;* 
hunting-bows,  shorter  by  two  feet  than  the  long-bow,  back 
double-curved  outwards  from  the  grip;  many  quivers  of 
coloured  arrows,  and  a  bundle  of  broad-bladed  boar-spears. 
A  curious  lamp,  open-wicked  and  dish-shaped,  burned 
smokily  on  the  floor,  which  was  of  matting,  very  prickly  to  the 
bare  feet. 

"It  hardens  them,'*  explained  their  host,  noticing  the 
Frenchman's  grimace  as  they  passed  into  a  second  apartment 
— similar  to  the  first,  but  furnished  with  stools  and  a  plain 
table,  already  set  with  a  dish-shaped  lamp,  horn  drinking- 
cups,  and  metal  plates  of  simple  workmanship.  Beyond 
lay  the  sleeping-chamber  into  which,  with  a  curt  "I  unarm," 
Akiou  disappeared.  They  heard  the  clang  of  dropped 
harness;  heard  its  wearer  damning  gutturally  at  an  invisible 
attendant. 

"Curse  that  animal,"  ejaculated  Beamish — the  cat  was 
scratching  and  whining  at  the  closed  door. 

"Poor  pussy!"  said  de  Gys,  and  he  opened  for  it.  The 
beast  entered  slowly,  sat  up  by  its  master's  stool,  began 
to  purr.  Phu-nan,  who  had  so  far  followed  the  three  bravely 
enough,  let  out  a  squeal  of  terror.  "Be  quiet,  savage," 
ordered  the  Frenchman,  "since  when  are  you  afraid  of  cats?  " 

*The  nocks  are  the  tips  of  the  bow. 


150  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"This  is  no  cat,"  stuttered  the  Moi,  "this  is  the  White 
Tiger  himself,  disguised  in  darkness."  The  purr  deepened 
to  a  bass  as  of  muted  strings,  tabby  folds  at  throat  rising 
and  falling  to  the  sound.  Dicky  stroked  one  of  the  huge 
pointed  ears,  and  the  cat  slavered  at  his  hand  with  rough 
red  tongue. 

"Nice  beasts,"  said  Akiou,  returning,  "and  very  clean." 
He  himself,  apparently,  had  not  washed;  only  changed  into 
the  yellow  silk  coatee  and  baggy  trousers  which  is  the  undress 
of  the  bowmen.  Now,  with  his  bare  feet,  his  close-shaved 
pate  and  fringe  of  black  hair  at  the  nape,  he  looked  a  very 
ordinary  Oriental.  His  servant,  similarly  attired,  but  in 
cotton,  emerged  from  the  inner  room,  acknowledged  some 
order  with  raised  arm,  went  out. 

"Tell  yours  to  follow  him,"  requested  Akiou — and  Phu- 
nan,  too,  left  the  room.  "You  are  weary.  Sit." 

The  three,  casting  their  hats  on  the  floor,  obeyed.  They 
felt  thoroughly  worn  out;  unshaved,  dirty,  and  almost 
dead  from  lack  of  sleep.  But  Akiou's  next  remark,  duly 
translated,  startled  de  Gys  into  wakefulness. 

"This  one,"  said  the  Harinesian,  running  upcurled 
fingers  through  the  cat's  whiskers  as  he  spoke,  "is  a  true 
pittising,  from  Pittising's  country.  We  found  him,  a  moth- 
erless kitten,  at  Quivering  Stone." 

But  when  de  Gys,  trying  his  utmost  to  curb  the  excite- 
ment in  his  voice,  asked  how  far  Quivering  Stone  might  be 
from  The  Gates,  Akiou  cut  him  short.  "Of  what  died 
N'ging?"  asked  Akiou,  meaningly. 

"Of  the  black  smoke."  The  Frenchman  looked  straight 
into  his  questioner's  crafty  eyes,  tried  vainly  to  read 
them. 

"May  his  spirit  beat  upon  the  drum  of  Ko-nan,  teaching 
the  danger  of  curiosity  to  those  who  come  after,"  said  the 
Harinesian — and  closed  the  topic. 

The  servants  entered,  bearing  a  steaming  bowl  piled  with 
saffron-tinted  rice,  and  a  bellied  samovar  of  some  dull  green 
metal;  put  these  on  the  table;  withdrew.  Their  host  filled 
the  drinking  cups  with  orange-scented  tea,  handed  them  to 


THEY  OF  THE  BOW  151 

his  guests;  served,  with  a  wooden  ladle,  ample  portions  of 
the  rice.  The  three  set-to,  making  clumsy  play  with  bone 
chopsticks.  Followed  the  legs  and  wings  of  a  peacock,  which 
they  ate  in  their  fingers;  a  curious  melon-like  fruit;  and  acrid 
cheroots. 

During  the  meal  nobody  said  a  word;  Akiou,  following  the 
custom  of  Harinesia,  devoting  himself  noisily  and  exclusively 
to  the  food;  his  guests  being  too  hungry  for  speech.  And 
even  after  they  had  finished  the  meal,  silence  prevailed. 

But  in  the  mind  of  Rene  de  Gys  was  no  silence,  only  a 
repeated  din  of  unanswered  questions.  He  watched  his  two 
Englishmen,  strange  semi-Oriental  figures,  Si-tuk's  dye  not 
yet  quite  worn  from  their  faces,  fume  of  their  smokes  mingling 
with  the  fume  from  the  lamp;  he  watched  Akiou's  white 
teeth  clenched  on  the  fat  cheroot,  the  square  forehead,  the 
crafty  eyes  below;  he  watched  his  own  bearded  visage  gro- 
tesquely caricatured  on  the  green  belly  of  the  tea-urn. 

And  watching,  it  seemed  to  Rene  de  Gys  as  though  an- 
other face  were  added  to  their  company — as  though,  out 
of  the  fume  and  the  glow  of  the  lamp,  there  materialized  the 
pale  face  and  the  fear-struck  eyes  of  Melie  la  blonde. 

And  de  Gys  thought  of  Negrini's  words,  "There  is  trouble 
in  Harinesia.  Ever  since  Melie  and  Lucien  came  to  Bu-ro, 
finding  their  way  through  the  country  of  Pittising  the  Cat, 
past  the  temple  of  Ko-nan,  there  has  been  faction  in  the  land !" 

Could  he  rely  upon  Negrini's  information?  So  far,  the 
dying  man  had  spoken  truth — their  presence  in  that  airless 
room  proved  it — and  the  cat,  curled  in  a  huge  ball  on  the 
floor — Akiou's  reference  to  the  Temple  of  Ko-nan — Akiou 's 
self.  But  why  had  the  Harinesian  refused  to  discuss  that 
which  lay  beyond  Quivering  Stone? 

So  the  Frenchman;  while  Dicky  and  Beamish  waited,  im- 
potently  curious,  impotently  dumb.  For  once  the  minds  of 
these  two  thought  alike:  "We've  got  to  Harinesia!  Hon- 
estly, I  never  expected  to  get  to  Harinesia.  Now,  what 
about  the  Flower  Folk?" 

But  that  night  they  learned  nothing  further  about 
the  Flower  Folk.  Akiou,  adroitly  pumped  by  de  Gys, 


152  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

evaded  with  equal  adroitness,  switching  conversation  to  the 
personal. 

"Had  they  enjoyed  the  tea?  It  was  good  tea — real 
Puerh  from  I-bang.  He  had  caravanned  it  himself.  Yes — 
twice  yearly  the  Harinesians  sent  caravans  to  I-bang  and 
Ssu-mao.  They  went  disguised — of  course.  One  did  not 
wear  armour  or  carry  the  bow  in  I-bang.  He  had  learned  to 
speak  Kwan-hwa  in  I-bang.  He  spoke  it  well?  So  did  his 
guest." 

Conversation  languished.     De  Gys  asked  about  City  Bu-ro. 

"They  would  like  City  Bu-ro.  A  fine  city — a  very  fine 
city.  How  far  away?  About  fifteen  munes." — Now  a  mune, 
which  is  the  measure  of  a  canoer's  stage  on  the  Mekong, 
may  be  any  distance — but  it  signifies  water-distance. 

"Was  there  then  no  road?"  asked  de  Gys.  "No — one 
went  by  water."  "What  water? "  "The  Harin,  of  course." 
"How  soon  would  they  start — next  day?" 

At  which  Akiou  with  a  smiling,  "I  perceive  you  have  not 
yet  had  experience  of  our  precious  Mandarins,"  closed  the 
discussion,  and  led  way  through  a  hidden  door  in  the  armoury 
to  their  narrow  bedroom.  There,  having  indicated  three 
piles  of  cured  skins  for  repose,  the  Harinesian  left  them. 

"Akiou,"  began  Beamish,  loosening  the  strings  which  were 
his  bootlaces,  "seems  a  bit  of  a  militarist."  But  Dicky,  al- 
ready full  length  on  his  couch,  merely  grunted  a  campaign- 
er's, "When  you  find  a  bed,  sleep  on  it";  and  de  Gys,  en- 
dorsing his  friend's  verdict,  blew  out  the  lamp. 


The  Long'un  woke  to  a  faint  noise  of  men  moving  about, 
the  vague  clink  of  harness;  turned  on  his  side;  drowsed  away 
five  blissful  minutes;  and  woke  again. 

De  Gys  and  Beamish  still  slumbered — huddled  forms  on 
their  skin  couches.  Opposite  to  him,  projected  slanting 
from  three  "arrow-slits  above  his  head,  three  oblong  bars  of 
pale  light  shone  steadily  on  the  black-wood  wall.  "Time  to 
get  up,"  thought  the  Long'un,  and  rose  quietly  to  his  feet. 

All  traces  of  fever  and  fatigue  had  vanished.    He  felt  strong 


THEY  OF  THE  BOW  153 

i 

once  more,  clear-eyed  and  active.  Also,  he  wanted  a  wash. 
But  there  were  no  washing-utensils  in  the  room.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  irresolute;  heard,  through  the  narrow  slits, 
Akiou's  voice  raised  in  a  triple  command  which  sounded  like 
"J9o,  Fei,  Foy";  heard  the  unmistakable  twang  of  bow- 
strings against  bracers,  the  sing  of  a  long-bow  volley,  and 
made  for  the  door. 

In  the  armoury  Pittising  the  cat  unwrinkled  one  drowsy 
eye  at  the  newcomer,  lifted  last  section  of  curled  tail  from  the 
floor,  and  went  to  sleep  again.  Dicky  stepped  gingerly  over 
the  great  beast,  stepped  out  into  the  clearing. 

A  hundred  yards  away  at  the  foot  of  the  trees — mediseval 
figures  in  the  half  light  of  a  sun  not  yet  above  tree-line — 
stood  a  line  of  some  thirty  bowmen,  naked  save  for  their 
kilts  of  chain-mail,  the  quivers  on  their  shoulders.  Twenty 
paces  in  front  of  them  and  slightly  to  the  flank  of  the  line, 
Akiou,  sword  drawn,  was  giving  orders. 

"Bo,"  shouted  Akiou.  The  archers  fitted  string-slot  to 
bow-string,  raised  weapons  shoulder  high. 

"Fei!"  Bent  thumbs  locked  the  string,  tucking  arrow- 
feathers  to  base  of  thumb  and  forefinger,  drew  barbs  to  bow- 
back. 

Akiou  raised  his  sword,  pointing  some  invisible  target; 
waited  five  full  seconds.  Dicky,  watching  the  line  of 
drawn  bows,  saw  them  steady  as  stone;  heard  Akiou's  sharp 
"Foy  /";  saw  the  curved  bow-backs  snap  straight  in  steady 
rights,  saw  the  barbs  flash;  heard  strings  twang  against 
bracers;  heard  the  shafts  sing  past;  was  aware  of  Akiou 
saluting  him  with  upright  sword. 

The  Long'un,  arm  raised,  acknowledged  the  salute;  ano! 
Akiou,  leaving  his  men,  raced  across  the  parade-ground. 
Followed,  on  the  Long'un's  part,  bewilderment;  from  Akiou 
smiles;  gestures;  a  dart  into  the  armoury;  return,  carrying 
a  bracer  and  a  strung  bow.  Then  the  Long'un  understood. 
The  Harinesian  wanted  him  to  shoot.  He  kept  offering  the 
bow,  signing  to  follow  him.  The  Long'un,  acting  as  on  in- 
stinct, fastened  bracer  round  left  forearm,  took  the  bow, 
examined  it  curiously. 


154  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

* 

The  string,  of  dark  quintuple  plaited  gut,  was  strong 
as  piano  wire,  looped  taut  to  nocks  of  turquoise  matrix:  the 
belly  of  the  bow  was  black,  and  the  back  red  wood,  but  be- 
tween the  two  pieces,  joining  them,  ran  a  hair  line  of  blued 
metal — the  steel  centre-spring.  The  grip,  bound  with  yellow 
twine  and  smooth-lacquered,  was  belly-grooved  for  the  ball 
of  the  thumb  and  back-slotted  for  the  fingers. 

Long'un,  weapon  in  hand,  followed  Akiou  to  the  shooting- 
point;  and  the  bowmen  gathered  round  him,  proffering 
their  short-range  yellow  arrows.  But  Akiou  waved  them 
away,  drawing  a  long  crimson  shaft  from  the  quiver  at  his 
naked  shoulder. 

As  the  Long'un  took  stance,  facing  the  mark — a  line  of 
man-shaped  blocks  two  hundred  yards  away  on  the  far  side 
of  the  clearing — the  yellow  faces  gasped  with  amazement. 
For  this  huge  man — surely  the  tallest  in  all  the  world — 
was  right-eyed  and  left-handed,  a  thing  never  seen  before 
in  Harinesia,  where  the  right  hand  holds  out  the  bow,  and  the 
left  draws  string  to  shoulder.  Moreover,  the  stranger  used 
no  gauntlet;  drew  string  with  three  bare  fingers.  To  the 
Harinesians,  who  use  the  Mongolian  grip,  thumb  locked  over 
bow-string,  this  was  the  most  wonderful  of  all  the  wonderful 
things  they  saw  that  day. 

So  stood  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith,  white 
giant  in  Oriental  rags,  Akiou's  pet  bow  raised  shoulder- 
high,  the  mark  in  front  and  the  astonished  Harinesians 
behind. 

Then,  very  slowly — as  a  man  remembers  the  past — he 
flexed  the  bow,  marvelling  at  the  pull  of  it,  till  arrow-head 
crept  back  almost  to  forefinger  and  taut  gut  strained  to  rigid 
triangle  between  its  leashed  and  quivering  nocks.  .  .  . 
And  very  slowly — as  men  out  of  the  past  took  aim — his  left 
swung  rigid  over  the  mark;  his  right  drew  the  last  inch  to 
eye-level;  and  with  a  fierce  twang  the  arrow  parted. 

But  Dicky,  eyes  fixed  low  on  the  target,  as  a  golfer  fixes 
his  eyes  on  the  ball,  never  saw  his  first  arrow.  Straight  it 
flew,  and  high;  up,  up,  up;  singing  towards  the  trees,  singing 
higher  and  higher,  till  Akiou — who  knew  the  pull  of  that  bow 


THEY  OF  THE  BOW  155 

to  fractions  of  inches — marked  it  strike  with  a  flicker  of  leaf 
and  flash  of  scarlet,  disappear  among  the  branches. 

"Good  Lord!"  thought  Dicky,  bow  still  arm's-length  from 
his  eye,  "where  did  that  one  go  to?"  Then  he  turned,  saw 
Akiou  laughing  and  pointing  upwards;  took  another  arrow. 

Again,  though  lower  this  time,  the  shaft  over-shot  its  mark, 
burying  itself  a  good  six  inches  in  the  tree-trunks  behind. 
But  at  the  third  attempt  the  Long'un's  arrow  struck  home; 
and  the  yellow  men's  mailed  kilts  rattled  as  they  stamped  the 
ground  with  approving  feet;  and  Akiou,  obviously  delighted, 
took  back  his  bow,  once  more  making  signs  to  follow. 

The  Harinesian  led  way  half  round  the  clearing  to  the 
mouth  of  the  jungle  tunnel;  dived  in.  Dicky,  stooping  be- 
hind, saw  him  start  to  climb  one  of  the  trees;  perceived  a 
bamboo  ladder;  swarmed  up  after. 

Higher  and  higher,  bow  gripped  in  his  teeth,  quiver  a- 
rattle  on  his  back,  climbed  Akiou;  higher  and  higher,  bamboo- 
rungs  aquiver  under  bare  soles,  bark  and  leaves  raining  on  his 
bare  head,  followed  the  Long'un.  Now,  among  thick 
branches  fifty  feet  from  the  thick  greenery  below,  ladders 
ended,  bridges  began.  Upwards  and  outwards,  liana-slung 
from  tree  to  tree,  led  the  bridges;  and  Akiou  raced  across 
them  while  the  Long'un,  heart  in  his  mouth,  followed  gin- 
gerly behind.  Below  him,  whenever  he  dared  to  look  under, 
the  trunks  dropped  sheer  through  black  star-fishes  of  the 
branch-boles  to  a  sea  of  tangled  creeper-tops;  above  and  in 
front  light  waxed  among  the  thinning  leaves. 

At  last  Akiou  stopped;  grinned  back  over  one  shoulder; 
turned;  reached  out  a  hand.  Dicky  took  it,  stepped  side- 
ways from  swinging  bridge  on  to  a  firm  platform  of  sawn 
boards.  Here,  at  very  top  of  the  forest,  they  were  in  sun- 
shine. 

Looking  down,  they  saw  the  Harin,  stripe  of  yellow-edged 
gold  against  the  dun  of  the  ground,  and  at  side  of  it,  so  close 
in  the  clear  atmosphere  that  eye  could  pick  out  each  cropping 
mule,  each  pile  of  harness,  each  smoke  of  cooking-pot,  and 
each  cross-legged  breakfaster,  the  caravan. 

But  Akiou 's  climb  had  other  purposes  than  sight-seeing. 


156  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

On  either  side  of  them,  perched  in  similar  crow's-nests, 
hidden  cunningly  from  the  eyes  of  any  watcher  below,  stood 
the  sentries — motionless  yellow  figures,  arrow-stands  at 
their  feet,  bows  in  their  hands.  Akiou  called  some  order 
to  them;  and  each,  acknowledging  the  order  with  raised  lefts, 
picked  an  arrow  from  his  arrow-stand,  fitted  it,  and  shot 
out  across  the  plain.  Dicky,  marking  the  curve  of  the  shafts 
against  the  sun,  saw  them  flatten  out,  dip,  dive,  and  strike 
ground  in  two  puffs  of  dust,  midway  to  the  caravan  and 
barely  a  yard  apart.  Then  Akiou  handed  him  bow  and 
shaft,  made  signal  to  shoot. 

"Vyeet"  ordered  Akiou,  "vyeet  moog  /" 

The  Long'un,  understanding  somehow  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  outrange  the  sentries,  braced  bare  feet  to  the  planks; 
flexed  bow;  wondered  vaguely  if  the  pull  of  it  would  land  him 
in  space;  and  shot.  The  arrow  soared  upwards;  seemed  to 
hesitate  in  mid  trajectory;  dived  to  dust-puff  a  full  fifty 
yards  beyond  its  mark. 

Akiou  drew  more  arrows  from  his  quiver,  stuck  them — 
feathers  upright — at  the  Englishman's  side;  signalled  to  go  on. 


"Phew!"  said  the  Long'un,  some  hour  later  as  the  three 
squatted  down  to  open-air  breakfast.  "He  didn't  half  put 
me  through  it.  Damned  if  I  do  any  more  of  this  Tarzan 
business  to  please  friend  Akiou.  It  wasn't  so  bad  going 
up.  But  coming  down!  My  grief!  And  the  bow  nearly 
pulls  you  off  the  tree  every  time  you  loose  off." 

De  Gys  swallowed  a  hornful  of  orange-scented  Puerh  be- 
fore replying: 

"My  friend,  you  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  your  appren- 
ticeship. Akiou  says — he  came  to  me,  pleased  as  a  monkey, 
while  you  were  having  your  wash — that  a  new  bow  is  to  be 
made  for  you.  A  super-bow,  I  imagine." 

"But  why?" 

"The  good  God  knows  why.  Perhaps  we're  going  to  be 
impressed  as  mercenaries.  You,  too,  doctor!"  added  de 
Gys  with  a  chuckle. 


THEY  OF  THE  BOW  157 

The  Socialist  frowned,  muttered  something  about  "militar- 
ism," and  stalked  off  across  the  clearing.  The  other  two, 
breakfast  over,  lit  cheroots;  dawdled  into  the  armoury; 
picked  a  brace  of  long  rapier-like  swords  from  the  wall. 

"You  fence?"  asked  the  Frenchman,  testing  keen  point 
against  his  big  toe. 

"A  little."  The  Long'un  gripped  hilt,  threw  himself  on 
guard. 

Akiou,  roused  by  the  clash  of  blades  at  play,  came  running 
into  the  armoury;  gave  one  look;  stood  in  wonderment. 
Never,  never  since  swords  were  made — mused  the  Captain  of 
The  Gates — had  men  fought  like  this:  arm  extended,  wrist 
steady,  point  circling  blade,  blade  parrying  point. 

For  till  Rene  de  Gys  taught  it  to  Akiou  that  morning 
no  Harinesian  had  ever  learned  the  deadliest  trick  of  fence — 
that  straight  line  from  point  of  shoulder  to  point  of  blade, 
against  which  even  the  bayoneted  rifle  thrusts  in  vain. 

But  that  morning  Akiou  learned  it,  and  that  afternoon 
Akiou 's  company;  and  towards  the  cool  of  evening,  when  the 
sun  slanted  crimson  behind  the  trees,  Akiou  told  it  in  the 
clearing  of  the  armourers,  where  day-long  and  night-long  the 
coal  of  Harinesia  glows  in  the  three-legged  braziers,  and  the 
haematite  of  Harinesia  bubbles  above  it,  and  the  treadles  of 
the  foot-bellows  rise  and  fall  steadily  to  the  old  men's  wrinkled 
feet,  and  the  steel  of  Harinesia  flows  molten  to  the  ingot- 
trenches,  and  the  hammers  in  the  old  men's  wrinkled  hands 
tap  like  woodpeckers,  fashioning  axe-head  and  arrow-head, 
sword-blade  and  centrepiece,  the  casque  that  shields  the 
head  and  the  solleret  that  guards  the  ankle-bone. 

And  the  old  men,  who  were  bowmen  once  and  sires  to 
Them  of  the  Bow,  chuckled  pver  their  work,  recognizing  this 
new  trick  which  had  come  to  Harinesia.  But  when  Akiou 
told  of  the  two  strangers,  and  of  the  blade  he  planned  for  the 
sword  of  one,  and  of  the  centre-spring  for  the  bow  of  the 
other,  then  the  old  men  chuckled  no  longer.  For  was  it  wise, 
they  said,  to  trust  such  weapons  to  the  Bloo  Loy?  At  which 
Akiou  laughed,  "Am  I  not  young?  Do  I  not  command?" 
and  having  made  certain  that  they  understood  his  orders, 


158  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

passed  on  through  hidden  jungle-paths  to  the  clearing  of  the 
wood-workers  and  the  chain-makers. 


But  not  once,  in  all  those  months  they  lived  in  Harinesia, 
did  any  of  the  three  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  armourers  or  of  the 
wood-workers  or  of  the  chain-makers — because  They  of  the 
Bow,  being  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  East,  keep  these 
things  secret. 


CHAPTER  THE  FOURTEENTH 

Containing,   among  other  information  of  supreme  interest 
to  the  reader,  a  short  history  of  the  Harinesian  people 

EXCEPT  for  Them  of  the  Bow  and  the  Mandarins, 
yellow-island-country  is  not  a  happy  place,  but 
Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  was  easily  the 
unhappiest  man  in  all  yellow-island  country.  The  Socialist 
who,  like  most  of  his  persuasion,  possessed  hardly  any  sport- 
ing instincts  and  absolutely  no  patience  with  the  foibles  of 
average  humanity,  found  life  under  Akiou's  command 
intolerable.  And  the  three  adventurers  had  been  under 
Akiou's  command,  virtually  prisoners,  for  ten  whole  days ! 

The  Harinesian  treated  them  with  every  courtesy:  had 
given  them  clothes,  food,  arms,  and  armour — both  of  which 
last,  Beamish,  true  to  his  type,  had  refused  to  wear;  had  fed 
their  caravan  and  fetched  their  specie-boxes :  but  vouchsafed 
no  information  about  his  country  beyond  occasional  reference 
to  the  "precious  Mandarins";  and  made  it  very  clear  that, 
until  word  came  from  City  Bu-ro,  the  three  must  consider 
themselves  on  parole.  Eastwards  of  the  clearing,  from  the 
jungle-tunnel  to  the  limestone-ridges,  they  might  wander  as 
they  pleased:  north  and  south,  through  the  forest,  certain 
paths  were  open;  westwards,  however — and  westwards  meant 
all  the  interior  of  Harinesia — was  absolutely  taboo. 

The  Long'un,  taking  to  archery  and  sword-play  as  a 
pittising  to  goat's  milk,  and  de  Gys,  his  fortune  as  an  explorer 
already  assured,  bore  these  restrictions  cheerfully.  Beamish, 
who — suddenly  converted  to  the  doctrine  of  individual 
liberty — had  thrice  attempted  to  cross  the  forbidden  bound- 
aries (being  twice  turned  back  by  a  mute  sentry  and 
once  by  a  throwing-axe  which  whizzed  six  inches  above  his 

159 


160  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

bare  head),  chafed  in  silence  most  of  the  day,  and  grumbled 
audibly  most  of  the  night. 

And  lack  of  the  purple  beans  added  last  touch  to  the 
doctor's  misery!  So  far,  the  Flower  had  seen  him  through. 
But  now  even  the  dreams  of  the  Flower  were  faded.  He  no 
longer  saw  himself  its  discoverer,  benefactor  of  all  humanity, 
famously  benevolent  and  benevolently  famous:  he  no  longer 
saw  those  wondrous  visions  of  the  night.  Ideals  had  withered 
like  dahlias  at  the  first  frost  of  Harinesian  reality.  Cyprian 
Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  was  just  a  very  unhappy  white 
man — taken  prisoner  by  yellow  savages. 

"How  the  devil  you  two  can  stand  it,"  he  burst  out  one 
pouring  afternoon  as  he  sat,  cross-legged  in  yellow  silk 
coatee  and  wide  trousers,  on  a  pile  of  skins  in  the  armoury, 
"I  fail  to  understand." 

Rene  de  Gys,  red-haired  and  red-bearded  as  of  yore, 
looked  up  from  the  task  of  teaching  Phu-nan  how  to  burnish 
chain-armour. 

"Stand  what?"  asked  Rene  de  Gys. 

"This  eternal  waiting.  We  must  have  been  here  a  fort- 
night already.  And  what  have  we  found  out?  Nothing — 
absolutely  nothing.  Not  even  whether  they  cultivate 
opium." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Beamish."  The  Long'un,  practi- 
cally naked,  was  busy  oiling  his  new  bow — a  bow  Akiou  had 
given  him  the  previous  evening.  "What  about  this,  isn't 
this  a  discovery?  "  And  he  held  up  the  long,  curved  weapon, 
eighty-five  inches  between  nock  and  brazen  nock  (no  tur- 
quoise-matrix could  stand  the  strain  of  that  sextuple-plaited 
pittising  gut  which  thrilled  like  a  cello-string  to  the  touch). 

"Its  name" — de  Gys,  scenting  a  jest,  imitated  Akiou's 
words  at  the  presentation — "is  Great  Bow  Skelvi.  The 
wood  of  its  belly  is  yellow,  because  I  give  it  to  you;  the 
wood  of  its  back  is  white,  your  own  colour;  and  the  grip 
crimson  for  the  blood  you  shall  shed  with  it.  With  this  great 
Bow  I  give  you  fifty  great  arrows,  greater  than  any  arrows 
ever  fashioned,  and  black  because  you  came  to  us  by  night." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  de  Gys.    You  and  the  Long'un  are  like  two 


THE  HARINESIAN  PEOPLE  161 

kids  with  your  bows  and  arrows,  your  swords,  your  axes,  and 
your  tin  helmets." 

The  Frenchman  flung  his  burnisher  to  Phu-nan. 

"And  this,"  he  went  on,  taking  a  long  rapier  from  its  rack 
on  the  wall,  "this  is  Great  Sword  Straight."  His  mailed  kilt 
rattled  as  he  threw  himself  on  guard.  "Its  hilt  is  of  ham- 
mered steel  and  its  guard  is  of  hammered  steel:  only  a  giant 
such  as  you  can  bend  it,  yet  when  it  bends,  it  breaks  not;  and 
it  has  no  scabbard  because  a  soldier  is  always  on  duty." 

"For  goodlHls  sake,"  protested  Beamish,  "put  that  pig- 
sticker away.  Can't  either  of  you  be  sensible?" 

"We're  perfectly  sensible,  old  man,"  drawled  the  Long'un. 
"Being  in  Harinesia,  we  do  as  the  Harinesians.  Why  don't 
you  learn  to  shoot  and  fence  and  wear  armour?" 

"Me!" 

"Yes,  you!  You  always  used  to  yap  about  the  *  jolly 
Middle  Ages,'  didn't  you?  Well,  now  you're  in  'em — only 
you  won't  recognize  it." 

"I.  .  .  ."  Beamish's  slow-working  mind  took  some 
seconds  to  grasp  his  friend's  sarcasm;  then  he  burst  out, 
"This  isn't  the  Middle  Ages.  This  is  sheer  savagery.  The 
Middle  Ages  was  .  .  ." 

"Were,"  corrected  the  Long'un,  imperturbably. 

"Were,  if  you  like  it — were  a  period  of  great  Art,  of 
Guild  Socialism.  .  .  ." 

"And  isn't  this  great  Art?"  The  Long'un  twanged  on 
his  bow-string.  "Or  this?"  He  held  up  a  light  helmet, 
rather  like  a  miniature  coal-scuttle,  the  head-piece  of  thin 
hammered  bronze,  the  chin-strap  of  fish-scale  steel. 

"Aren't  the  bowmen  a  Guild — a  Guild  of  fighters?  You 
don't  imagine  all  the  Harinesians  are  like  Akiou,  do  you?  I 
suppose  you  haven't  troubled  to  find  out  who  makes  these 
weapons?" 

"No." 

"Well,  they're  made  by  time-expired  bowmen  somewhere 
in  this  very  forest.  There's  another  Guild  for  you !  And  one 
that  knows  how  to  keep  its  trade  secrets  devilish  quiet." 

Ensued  one  of  those  oppressive  silences  which  were  grow- 


162  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

ing  more  and  more  frequent  whenever  the  three  forgathered. 
Dicky,  oiling  finished,  rose  to  his  bare  feet;  flexed  and  un- 
strung Bow  Skelvi;  racked  it  beside  the  full  quiver;  took  his 
kilt  from  Phu-nan;  jointed  the  snake-buckled  girdle  round 
his  loins;  and  curled  his  long  form  on  a  couch.  De  Gys, 
standing  Sword  Straight  against  the  wall,  dismissed  Phu-nan; 
plumped  down  beside  the  Englishman. 

"Any  news,  mon  vieux?"  asked  Rene  de  Gys. 

"Yes.     If  Beamish  will  come  out  of  his  sulks,  I'll  tell  you." 

"I  wasn't  really  sulking,"  growled  BeanfflRi,  "only  this 
sort  of  life  gets  on  my  nerves."  He  joined  them,  carefully 
arranging  a  skin  over  the  prickly  matting;  squatted  to  floor. 
"Is  there  any  real  news,  Long'un?" 

"Well — it  depends.  /  think  it's  news  of  the  highest  im- 
portance. This  morning,  while  I  wTas  testing  the  bow — and 
it's  some  bow  I  can  tell  you,  we  measured  three  casts  of  over 
six  hundred,  on  the  flat,  downwind,  of  course.  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  your  new  toy,"  from  the  doctor. 

"Sorry,  doc.  But  the  bow's  important.  As  I  said,  while 
we  tested  Skelvi  this  morning,  Akiou  stood  the  men  at  ease 
and  I  heard  two  of  them  talking." 

"But  you  can't  speak  Harinesian,  Long'un?" 

"Can't  I?" — Dicky,  who  had  made  more  progress,  under 
Akiou's  unconscious  tutoring,  than  he  yet  cared  to  admit, 
smiled  at  the  ceiling.  "Well,  perhaps  I  can't.  But  I  under- 
stand more  than  they  think  I  do,  anyway.  These  two  men 
kept  on  repeating  three  words:  Bo — that's  a  bow,  or  'to 
shoot,'  and  signifies  fighting  of  any  sort — Bloo,  and  Loy. 
Now," — the  drawl  crisped  with  suppressed  excitement — 
"when  the  doc  picked  those  orchids  yesterday  Akiou  called 
them  Bloo.  Bloo,  therefore,  means  a  flower.  And  Loy — 
that's  a  word  they  use  all  the  time — is  men,  or  people. 
Comprenez  ?" 

"  Which  means  to  say     .     .     ."     began  the  Frenchman. 

"Mon  Dieu  /"  burst  out  the  Long'un.  "Where  are  your 
brains,  de  Gys?  I  use  a  new  bow — a  bow  with  a  hundred 
yards  longer  range.  And  the  bowmen  say:  *  Shoot  Flower 
People!'" 


THE  HARINESIAN  PEOPLE  163 

"You  may  be  wrong  in  your  translation,"  said  de  Gys, 
cautiously. 

"I  may  be.  But  supposing  I'm  right.  Firstly,  it  proves 
that  the  Flower  Folk  are  not  a  myth;  and  secondly.  .  .  ." 
He  bit  off  the  sentence,  thought  a  full  minute,  and  added: 
"Supposing  the  bowmen  meant,  'with  a  bow  carrying  as  far 
as  this  one,  we  could  attack  the  Flower  Folk/ ' 

"Aye,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "supposing  they  meant 
that!"  And  he  leaned  his  bearded  chin  on  huge  hand, 
ruminating. 

"But  why  should  they  want  to  shoot  the  Flower  Folk?" 
asked  Beamish.  "Why  should  they  want  to  shoot  any- 
body?" 

"Well,"  laughed  the  Long'un,  "without  referring  that 
question  back  to  your  international  friends  at  Geneva,  I 
should  say  the  Harinesians  were  not  anxious  to  be" — he 
hesitated,  glanced  at  de  Gys — "colonized." 

"It  couldn't  be  done."  The  Frenchman  emerged  slowly 
from  reverie.  "Unless  one  burned  down  their  forests  with 
flame-shell.  Besides,  where  is  Harinesia?  Where  are  we? 
Do  you  know,  friend?" 

"No.     /  lost  my  bearings  on  the  Nam  Khane." 

"And  I,  three  days  after  we  left  it.  We  were  marching 
to  the  East  then — yet  we  entered  Harinesia  from  the  East." 
He  reverted  to  his  ruminations.  "You  remember  everything 
Negrini  told  us?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Eh  bien,  your  information,  if  accurate,  tallies  with 
Negrini's.  Listen!"  And  de  Gys,  red-brown  eyes  suddenly 
kindling  with  enthusiasm,  began  to  quote:  "'Take  the 
women,  Kun-mer.  We  have  brought  them  all  back  for  you. 
There  is  not  one  missing:  not  one  single  golden-haired  white 
girl  have  we  kept  for  ourselves.  .  .  .  And  you  need  fear 
no  blood-feud:  their  men  all  died  by  the  bow."3 

"You  mean  to  say" — this  time  it  was  the  Long'un  who  be- 
gan the  question;  de  Gys  who  cut  it  short  with:  "Mon  Dieu, 
where  are  your  brains,  friend?  'Why  should  these  people 
want  to  shoot  the  Flower  Folk?'  asks  the  doctor.  You,  you 


164  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

jest  with  him;  but  I,  I,  Rene  de  Gys,  I  answer  his  question  in 
these  four  words,  'Because  of  their  women* !" 

For  a  moment  the  three  sat  silent.    Then  Beamish  spoke : 

"But  why  should  yellow  men  want  white  women?'* 

"My  friend,"  said  Rene  de  Gys,  "it  is  obvious  that  you 
have  never  been  in  Hong-Kong,  in  Shanghai,  in  San  Francisco, 
in  Cardiff,  or  in  Limehouse!  Listen  again  to  the  words  of 
Negrini:  'The  woman  Su-rah  does  not  want  the  white 
women  of  the  Flower  Folk  brought  captive  to  Harinesia. 
She  fears  lest  the  beauty  of  the  white  women  prevail  against 
her  own  beauty.'" 

"If  we  could  only  be  certain  that  the  Flower  Folk  existed, 
that  they  were  white?"  Long'un's  voice,  dropped  to  solilo- 
quy, was  almost  inaudible. 

But  de  Gys  took  him  up. 

"Of  that  we  have  proof  enough.  Akiou  knows  that  they 
exist.  He  told  me  as  much,  in  his  Oriental  way,  on  our  first 
evening.  When  I  asked  what  lay  beyond  Quivering  Stone, 
what  did  he  answer?  'How  died  N'ging?'  And  how  did 
N'ging  die,  friends?  Of  poison — administered  by  the 
woman  Su-rah.  The  truth  of  Negrini's  tale  is  proved  I  tell 
you,  proved  to  the  hilt."  And  de  Gys  chanted,  as  he  had 
chanted  long  ago  in  Singapore,  "White  women,  Capitaine, 
white  women  among  the  mountains." 

"One  moment,  mon  vieux"  the  Long'un's  voice  inter- 
rupted coldly,  "if  Negrini  told  the  truth,  Melie  and  Lucien 
must  have  passed  this  very  Gate.  Curious,  isn't  it,  that 
Akiou  should  never  have  mentioned  them  ?  " 

"Akiou  keeps  his  own  counsel.  And  is  it  not  even  more 
curious  that  these  bowmen — savages,  mark  you,  living  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest — find  nothing  strange  in  our  being  white." 

Again  the  three  sat  silent.  They  had  lost  vision  so  often 
during  those  weary  months.  But  now!  now  it  seemed  as 
though  all  three  saw  simultaneous  light — the  light  of  Melie's 
countenance.  Behind  the  veil  about  the  past,  beyond  the 
veil  across  the  future,  Melie,  the  very  spirit  of  Melie, 
beckoned  them  forward.  Each  visioned  her  anew,  star- 
clear,  star-splendid,  on  the  horizon  of  his  mind.  And  to  one 


THE  HAKINESIAN  PEOPLE  165 

she  was  plighted  word,  and  to  the  other  love-of -country;  but 
to  the  third — to  the  gray-haired,  dull-eyed  man  in  the  yellow 
undress  of  Harinesia — she  was  more  than  either  of  these: 
she  was  faith,  his  faith  in  the  Ultimate  Destiny. 

And  suddenly — as  though  for  confirmation  of  the  vision 
vouchsafed  to  them — they  heard,  very  faint  and  far  away, 
the  throb  of  an  elephant-conch. 


Louder  and  louder,  roar  answering  roar  till  the  far  forest 
seemed  a-rock  with  their  sound;  nearer  and  nearer,  call 
echoing  call  till  the  near  forest  thundered  through  all  its 
branches,  boomed  the  voice  of  the  elephant-conches.  Then 
the  three  heard  the  patter  of  naked  feet  on  bare  boards; 
heard  Akiou's  voice;  heard  their  own  signal-trumpet  roar 
out  reply;  pressed  saving  finger-tips  to  deafened  ears. 

Five  rocking  minutes  they  waited;  till  gradually  ear- 
drums grew  aware  of  lessening  tumult,  and  relaxed  finger- 
tips let  in  sound  anew.  As  a  rope  dragged  back  by  in- 
visible hands,  sound  receded.  Space,  forest-space,  quiet 
but  yet  a-thrill,  widened  between  them  and  sound.  Sound 
died  to  faintest  mutter — the  wraith  of  a  throb. 

And,  "Noisy  brutes"  said  the  [Long'un;  and  "Blasted 
Orientals!"  said  that  disciple  of  universal  brotherhood, 
Cyprian  Beamish.  But  de  Gys,  remembering  his  first 
reception,  rose  from  the  couch  with  a  rattle  of  harness; 
seized  helmet  from  the  wall,  and  clanked  off  into  the  rain. 

"That  was  City  Bu-ro  calling,"  he  shouted  from  the  door- 
way. 

Dicky  and  Beamish,  pashing  after  him,  bare-foot  in  the 
red  mud,  circled  the  barracks;  nearly  ran  down  two  signallers, 
carrying  the  long-distance  conch — enormous  curved  horn  of 
unpolished  ivory — on  yellow  streaming  shoulders;  found  the 
Frenchman  and  Akiou  sheltered  under  the  lee  gables. 

"What  does  he  say?"  asked  the  Long'un  at  a  pause  in  the 
conference. 

"He  says" — de  Gys  laughed — "that  there  is  no  need  for 
excitement." 


166  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Then  it  wasn't  City  Bu-ro  after  all?" 

"Wrong,  my  friend!  It  was  City  Bu-ro.  An  urgent  mes- 
sage. So  urgent  that  in  three  more  weeks  .  .  ." 

"In  how  long?" 

"In  three  more  weeks,  comme  je  vous  dis,  we  shall  start  for 
the  capital!" 

"My  grief!"  ejaculated  the  Long'un;  and  added,  suddenly 
mindful  of  England:  "One  begins  to  perceive  that  the 
'precious  Mandarins'  of  yellow-island-country  do  not  differ 
very  vastly  from  our  own." 


They  waited  the  full  three  weeks — and  yet  another: 
Beamish  irritable,  de  Gys  restless,  the  Long'un — least  tem- 
peramental of  the  three — resigned  and  busy. 

"All  said  and  done,"  reckoned  the  Long'un,  "there  are  worse 
lives  than  a  savage's."  The  short  rainy  reason  was  practi- 
cally over;  and  every  morning  Akiou  led  his  archers  to 
mimic  skirmishes  on  the  plain  or  in  the  forest.  They  fought 
in  curious  mediaeval  formations  with  unbarbed  arrows,  with 
blunted  throwing-axes,  with  buttoned  swords;  they  swung, 
monkey-like,  bows  in  their  teeth,  from  ladder  to  ladder 
among  the  trees;  they  swam  races  in  the  Harin;  shot  pea- 
cocks on  the  wing;  stood  up,  stabbing-spear  in  either  hand, 
to  the  charging  boar.  And  all  these  things  the  Long'un 
practised  with  them;  out-swimming  them,  out-fencing  them, 
out-shooting  them,  out-climbing  them  at  the  last;  till  Bow 
Skelvi  became  very  limb  of  its  owner,  and  shoulder-muscles 
carried  their  harness  like  a  skin,  and  feet  under  fluted  sol- 
lerets  grew  hard  as  the  hardest  soil  on  which  they  trod. 

But  in  the  long  tropic  mid-days,  when  sun  blazed  down 
from  the  roof  of  their  pit,  and  shadows  shrank  back  to  tree- 
boles,  when  the  drowsy  archers  snored  behind  their  arrow- 
slits,  and  de  Gys — who  was  clumsy  with  the  bow  but  a 
mighty  man  with  stabbing-spear  and  throwing-axe — wan- 
dered off,  Pittising  at  his  heels,  to  hunt  boars  or  inspect  the 
caravan  (which  still  waited,  Orientally  complacent,  on  the 
plain  without),  Dicky  would  take  ink-slab  and  brush-pencil, 


THE  HARINESIAN  PEOPLE  167 

puzzling  guttural  sounds  and  glimpsed  meanings  into  clear 
English  on  the  ribbed  palmetto-leaf. 

And  the  more  Dicky  worked  at  his  Harinesian — secretly, 
as  a  spy  works — for  knowledge  shared  by  an  enemy  is  no 
knowledge — the  greater  grew  his  astonishment;  the  more 
certain  a  theory,  a  wild  fantastic  theory,  he  had  formed  about 
its  origin.  .  . 

Meanwhile,  though  he  never  relaxed  his  vigilance  nor 
widened  the  boundaries,  Akiou — won  over  by  military 
prowess — grew  gradually  more  talkative;  would  sit,  night 
after  red-hot  night,  cheroot  between  white  teeth,  gabbling 
guttural  Kwan-hwa  across  the  fume  of  the  table-lamp;  till 
gradually,  listening  to  de  Gys'  translations,  Dicky  made 
mind-pictures  of  Harinesia:  of  the  opium-fields,  river- 
irrigated,  where  the  poppy  had  already  blown  its  mauve 
and  purple  petals;  of  the  women,  slicing  the  seed-pods,  and 
the  boys  treading  milk  and  seeds  to  thick,  glutinous  paste; 
of  the  mulberry  plantations  and  the  silk  factories  and  the 
rice-fields,  and  the  cotton-fields,  and  the  coal-mines,  and 
the  block-houses  on  the  canals;  of  the  great  clearings  in  the 
forests,  and  the  thousand  islands  through  which  the  Harm 
circled  under  over-arching  dipterocarpi  to  the  black  stone 
quays  of  City  Bu-ro. 

But  never — till  that  last  evening  in  the  outer  forest — 
did  Akiou  tell  them  the  history  of  his  country,  or  give  them 
slightest  clue  to  the  mystery  of  the  Flower  Folk. 


All  that  last  day  there  had  been  movement  in  the  barracks 
— polishings  of  harness,  comings  and  goings  of  yellow- 
trousered  runner-boys;  but  only  at  evening,  when  the  four 
of  them  squatted — dinner  finished,  cheroots  glowing,  Pittising 
the  cat  spread  purring  against  their  feet — at  the  open  door 
of  the  armoury,  did  Akiou  tell  them  that  waiting  was  over. 
Then  he  said,  baldly:  "To-morrow  at  dawn  we  start." 

"You  come  with  us?"  asked  the  Frenchman. 

"Aye.  I  come  with  you.  My  men,  too.  It  is  the  Feast 
of  the  Bow.  And  by  Ko-nan,  I  think  that  our  company  will 


168  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

prove  worthy  of  the  Big  Killing."  Obviously  the  man  was 
moved:  yellow  face,  usually  so  smooth  and  imperturbable, 
creased  slightly;  nostrils  expanded;  a  spot  of  colour  mounted 
to  the  high  cheekbones;  crafty  eyes  twinkled. 

"What  is  the  Feast  of  the  Bow?  And  who  dies  at  this 
Big  Killing  of  which  you  speak?  Why  should  our  company 
prove  worthy?" 

"Because  of  Bow  Skelvi  and  of  Sword  Straight."  Akiou's 
voice  dropped  into  a  curious  sing-song.  "You  thought  me  a 
fool,  Keo,  when  you  wagered  two  bows  against  one  that  your 
company  would  out-shoot  us,  out-play  us  at  the  sword.  We 
have  giants  in  our  company,  Keo.  White  Giants  of  the 
Bloo  Loy." 

De  Gys  started,  tried  to  interrupt,  but  the  sing-song,  half 
in  Kwan-hwa  and  half  in  Harinesian,  went  on: 

"Once  a  year,  at  the  Feast  of  the  Bow,  We  of  the  Bow, 
before  the  Mandarins  and  the  People,  show  the  worth  of 
the  Bow." 

Harinesian  swamped  Kwan-hwa  in  a  flood  of  gutturals: 
the  man's  whole  face  seemed  to  change :  Oriental  smoothness 
crinkled  to  primitive  ferocity. 

Only  Dicky — who  dared  not  ask  explanations  for  fear  of 
betraying  his  knowledge — understood  that  outburst.  And 
even  to  Dicky  much  of  it  was  unintelligible.  Akiou  spoke  of 
an  Eating,  a  great  Eating  in  City  Bu-ro.  After  the  Eating 
bowmen  fought  together,  company  by  company.  And  to  the 
winning  company  fell  some  prize.  "Kill,"  ran  the  sing-song. 
"Kill!  Here  be  many  ripe  for  the  Bow.  Kill!  Kill!"  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Akiou  recovered  himself.  Sing-song  ceased. 
Lines  and  colour  vanished  from  his  face,  leaving  it  smooth 
yellow  parchment  on  which  the  ink  of  emotion  had  left  no 
traces.  He  apologized:  "By  the  drum  of  Ko-nan." 

"Is  Ko-nan  then  the  god  of  yellow-island-country?" 

De  Gys  who  had  questioned  Akiou  on  the  point  more  than 
once,  and  always  in  vain,  hardly  expected  a  reply.  But  the 
Harinesian,  cautiousness  for  the  moment  out  of  control, 
answered  readily. 

"There   be  many  gods   in   yellow-island-country,"   said 


THE  HARINESIAN  PEOPLE  169 

Akiou,  "and  Ko-nan  is  one  of  them.  Hear  his  story!  Many 
many  moons  ago,  while  the  Emperor  yet  sat  on  the  throne  of 
his  ancestors,  before  the  days  of  Kahl-ma  the  prophet  whom 
I  curse,  before  the  days  of  the  Mandarins,  whom  I  also  curse, 
there  were — so  I  have  heard  say — artists  in  this  land,  painters 
on  wood  and  carvers  of  ivory,  players  on  the  sanhsien,  poets 
and  story-tellers.  Now  these  people  are  all  gone  away. 
For  who  would  paint  or  carve  ivory  or  play  upon  the  sanh- 
sien or  tell  stories  for  the  Mandarins?  In  those  days  this 
Ko-nan  was  a  story-teller.  He  went  up  and  down  the  land, 
telling  tales  in  the  cities  and  the  villages.  And  all  the 
people  praised  him  for  his  tales,  giving  him  rice  and  rosy 
caviare  and  silk  clothing." 

Akiou  paused  a  moment,  went  on: 

"A  strange  trade!  But  men  say  he  waxed  rich  upon  it; 
so  that  he  need  no  more  tell  stories  to  the  people.  And 
waxing  old — and  idle — it  is  related  of  him  that  he  saw 
visions:  dragons,  and  huge  birds  with  wings  made  of  water, 
and  the  faces  of  his  ancestors.  These  visions  he  painted 
upon  plates  of  glass.  And  when  the  Emperor  heard  of  it, 
he  summoned  Ko-nan  to  him,  asking  him  to  show  the  plates 
and  tell  if  the  things  upon  them  were  true.  And  Ko-nan 
said,  *  Greater  marvels  than  these  be  true,  O  Transparent 
One.  For  in  my  house  is  a  great  drum;  and  nightly,  when 
these  visions  thou  seest  painted  on  the  glass  appear  to  me, 
come  the  spirits  of  my  ancestors,  and  beat  upon  the  drum.' " 

Akiou  shivered;  and  de  Gys  saw  superstition,  the  blind 
superstition  of  the  savage,  leap  into  his  eyes. 

"And  you  believe  in  this  god,  Akiou?" 

"Who  shall  say?  But  this  I  know:  that  the  Temple  which 
the  Emperor  built  in  honour  of  Ko-nan  is  a  place  of  fear." 

Now  de  Gys  trod  cautiously. 

"Is  the  Temple  very  ancient?" 

"Aye.  Older  than  the  tomb  of  Kahl-ma,  older  than 
Quivering  Stone,  older  than  the  Bloo  Loy." 

Dicky,  catching  the  last  words,  looked  inquiringly  at 
de  Gys;  but  the  Frenchman  signalled  him  not  to  interrupt. 
Akiou  continued : 


170  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Since  we  go  together  to  the  Feast  of  the  Bow,  it  is  good 
that  I  should  tell  you  something  of  the  history  of  this  land. 
For  otherwise,  when  you  walk  with  the  Mandarins — who 
are  more  cunning  than  We  of  the  Bow — your  feet  may 
stumble.  Though  why  thou,  and  Bearer  of  Bow  Skelvi, 
who  are  soldiers,  come  here  to  purchase  the  poppy  of  the 
Mandarins,  I  cannot  understand.  Unless  that  one" — 
the  Harinesian  pointed  one  upcurled  finger  towards  Beamish, 
nodding  sleepily  over  his  cheroot — "be  a  merchant  and  you 
his  servants." 

"We  be  all  three  merchants,"  said  de  Gys,  warily. 

"That  would  be  a  good  tale  to  tell  to  the  Mandarins.  But 
as  for  me,  I  think  ye  seek  other  merchandise  than  our 
poppy" — the  crafty  eyes  bored  into  de  Gys'  brain — "even 
that  merchandise  for  which  N'ging  gave  his  life." 

De  Gys  made  no  answer;  and  after  a  while  Akiou  spoke 
again : 

"That,  however,  is  not  my  affair.  As  I  see  it,  we  be  three 
soldiers  together.  Therefore,  I  warn  you  against  the  Man- 
darins. Listen!  Many  thousand  moons  ago,  while  the 
Emperor  yet  sat  on  the  throne  of  his  ancestors,  We  of  the 
Bow,  being  servants  of  the  Emperor,  ruled  all  Suvarna- 
bhumi.  Giaochi  was  ours,  and  Anin  and  Caugigu.  From 
Carajan  in  the  north  to  Locac  and  the  Islands  of  Bentam 
our  merchants  traded  freely.  For  We  of  the  Bow  pro- 
tected our  merchants,  and  none  hindered  them,  and  they 
growing  rich  the  land  grew  rich  with  them,  and  there  were 
artists  in  the  land  and  all  the  people — even  the  lowest — were 
happy.  Then  arose  Rothisen,  King  of  Angkor,  and  we  fought 
with  the  men  of  Angkor.  .  .  ." 

"Did  the  Harinesians,  then,  sack  Angkor  Wat?"  De  Gys 
could  not  refrain  from  that  one  question,  for  the  mystery  of 
Angkor  Wat  is  the  mystery  of  all  Indo-China. 

"Aye.  When  Rothisen,  King  of  Angkor,  demanded  that 
our  Emperor  should  take  one  of  his  thousand  daughters  in 
marriage,  We  of  the  Bow  sacked  the  Wat  of  Angkor.  And 
the  kingdom  of  Angkor  perished.  Against  the  King  of  Ava, 
also,  we  fought;  and  against  the  King  of  Ayuthia.  Till  at 


THE  HARINESIAN  PEOPLE  171 

last  there  was  no  king  save  our  own  in  all  Suvarnabhumi. 
We  Harinesians  were  great  in  those  days— a  great  nation. 
For  every  man — aye,  even  the  common  people — carried  his 
bow;  and  none  could  stand  against  us." 

Akiou  sighed  as  one  who  remembers  the  past  glories  of  an 
Empire,  went  on : 

"A  great  nation!  We  made  treaties  with  all  Suvarna- 
bhumi, with  the  black  Lo-los,  and  the  white  Lo-los,  with  the 
Ku-lin  Miaos,  and  the  yellow  Song-kia  of  the  north  who 
worship  the  White  Tiger,  and  the  Pa-fan  Miaos  who  beat 
upon  the  drum,  and  the  Luh-tong-iren  of  the  blue  umbrellas. 
Even  with  the  Cham  of  Tartary  we  made  us  treaties.  For 
all  these  feared  the  Bow.  And  there  was  peace  in  Suvarna- 
bhumi, so  that  the  merchants  waxed  fat  and  the  common 
people  with  them.  But  the  people  waxed  too  fat." 

Akiou  sighed  again. 

"Of  what  use  are  treaties  without  arms  to  enforce  them? 
The  black  Lo-los  revolted;  and  We  of  the  Bow,  those  that 
were  left  of  us — for  many  had  cast  aside  the  Bow  and  become 
merchants — fought  against  them  and  conquered.  Then  the 
Song-kia  revolted — and  these,  too,  we  fought,  conquering 
them.  But  the  Cham  of  Tartary  we,  being  few,  could  not 
conquer.  His  people  began  to  oppress  our  merchants,  raid- 
ing the  caravans.  So  the  Emperor,  fearing  lest  he  should 
break  treaty  with  us,  decreed  that  all  who  lived  in  Harinesia 
must  practise  with  the  Bow. 

"Now  in  those  days  were  many  foreigners  in  the  land,  and 
one  of  these  whose  name  was  Kahl-ma,  a  refugee  from  Angkor 
— where  men  say  he  had  been  stoned  in  the  market  place — 
having  neither  goods  nor  field  nor  yamen  of  his  own,  began  to 
stir  up  the  common  people,  telling  lies  against  the  Emperor 
and  the  merchants,  saying  that  these  were  oppressors.  And 
the  common  people,  being  foolish,  believed  this  Fan-qui-lo, 
and  rose  up  against  the  Emperor  and  the  merchants;  and — 
We  of  the  Bow  being  away  in  Carajan,  fighting  against  the 
raiders  of  the  Cham — they  slew  the  Emperor  and  the  mer- 
chants, and  set  up  Kahl-ma  in  their  stead;  and  took  the 
stores  of  rice  which  the  merchants  had  saved  against  famine, 


172  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

and  the  silks  from  the  Emperor's  house — aye!  even  the 
Emperor's  women  they  took — sharing  all  these  things 
equally  among  them." 

Akiou  stopped  to  pat  the  great  cat  at  his  feet;  and  the 
cat  yawned  cavernously,  slavering  at  his  yellow  fingers. 

"And  does  Kahl-ma  still  rule  in  Harinesia?"  asked  de 
Gys. 

"Nay.  Kahl-ma  and  the  teachings  of  Kahl-ma  be  dead 
these  three  thousand  moons.  For  the  common  people, 
having  none  to  rule  and  none  to  trade  for  them,  waxed  lazy. 
They  would  not  plant  rice,  nor  cultivate  the  poppy,  nor  till 
the  mulberry-groves,  nor  hew  in  the  coal-mines.  And  there 
was  famine  in  all  Harinesia.  Then,  knowing  us  weak* 
the  black  Lo-los  and  the  white  Lo-los  joined  in  revolt  against 
us.  And  the  Ku-lin  Miaos  and  the  Pa-fan  Miaos  and  the 
Luh-tong-iren  no  longer  paid  tribute.  And  the  yellow 
Song-kia  betrayed  the  gate  of  Carajan  to  the  Cham  of 
Tartary.  And  what  could  We  of  the  Bow,  being  few  and 
hungry,  do  against  so  many?" 

"What  the  devil's  he  talking  about?"  whispered  the 
Long'un. 

"Patience" — the  Frenchman  held  up  a  warning  finger — 
"he  speaks  in  parables." 

"Nevertheless" — Akiou 's  voice  went  on — "we  fought  a 
great  fight.  Three,  four,  five  times,  we  beat  off  the  men  of 
the  north.  But  always  the  Cham  sent  more  against  us. 
And  when  Kahl-ma  prayed  for  peace,  the  Cham  slew  his 
ambassadors — who  were  of  the  common  people  and  not  fit  for 
embassy — because,  owing  to  the  famine,  they  could  bring  no 
tribute.  So  Giaochi  was  lost  to  us,  and  Anin,  and  Caugigu, 
and  Locac  and  the  Islands  of  Bentam.  Ava  also  rose  against 
us,  and  Ayuthia:  till  at  last,  seeing  all  save  flight  useless, 
We  of  the  Bow — a  remnant  of  us — fought  our  way  back  to 
Harinesia.  And  when  the  men  of  the  north  came  to  these 
forests  they  could  follow  no  longer,  but  fell  in  heaps.  So  we 
slew  them;  and  Kahl-ma  also  we  slew  with  the  Bow,  and  all 
those  foreigners  who  were  the  friends  of  Kahl-ma.  And  the 
common  people,  being  hungry,  went  back  to  their  work.  I 


THE  HARINESIAN  PEOPLE  173 

liave  heard,  from  my  great-grandfather,  that  they  were  a  very 
thin  people." 

The  Harinesian  grinned;  grew  serious  again. 

"Now,  listen,  friend.  For  this,  I  think,  is  the  information 
ye  three  are  seeking.  After  the  death  of  Kahl-ma,  We  of  the 
Bow  ruled  the  remnant  of  Harinesia.  But  again  mis- 
fortune came  upon  the  land :  for  there  fell  upon  us,  out  of  the 
south,  that  white  tribe  whom  we  call  the  Bloo  Loy,  fierce  men 
with  beards  and  weapons  of  fire." 

The  Frenchman  stiffened  to  attention  at  the  last  words. 

"These  Bloo  Loy  came  down  from  Quivering  Stone, 
through  Pittising's  country.  And  we  fought  with  them, 
killing  and  being  killed  for  many  moons;  till  at  last,  when  the 
fire  failed  in  their  weapons,  we  drove  them  back.  Almost  to 
Quivering  Stone  we  drove  them;  and  gladly  would  we  have 
slain  them  all — for  their  women  were  white  and  of  great 
beauty." 

Dicky  and  Beamish,  watching  de  Gys,  saw  one  huge  fist 
clench;  saw  the  veins  of  anger  lift  and  swell  on  his  forehead. 

"But  in  those  days  arose  the  Mandarins — cunning  fellows, 
great  wielders  of  the  mouth  and  the  ink-slab.  These,  bidding 
us  lay  down  our  arms,  made  a  truce  with  the  Bloo  Loy, 
and  in  the  eleventh  moon  of  the  fifth  year  of  the  Goat  signed 
treaty  with  them.  But  when  We  of  the  Bow  came  back 
from  Pittising's  country — for  it  was  written  that  Quivering 
Stone  should  be  boundary  between  us  and  our  enemies — lo! 
the  Mandarins  ruled  in  City  Bu-ro." 

"Was  that  long  ago?" 

"When  my  great-grandfather  was  yet  a  boy:  but  these 
Mandarins,  they  rule  us  to  this  day." 

"And  the  Bloo  Loy?"  De  Gys  could  hardly  keep  the 
tremble  out  of  his  voice. 

"  What  do  I  know  of  the  Bloo  Loy  ?  "  Akiou's  crafty  eyes 
veiled  themselves  under  scant  lashes.  "Ask  of  them  in  City 
Bu-ro.  But  this  I  know,  that  the  tyranny  of  the  Mandarins 
is  greater  than  the  tyranny  of  any  Emperor." 

The  Harinesian,  a  yellow  ghost  in  the  gloom,  rose  suddenly 
to  his  feet. 


174  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"For  these,  saying  that  they  rule  in  the  name  of  the  people, 
have  taken  all  liberty  from  the  people.  So  that  to-day — 
even  as  in  the  days  of  Kahl-ma — there  be  neither  merchants 
nor  craftsmen  nor  artists  in  Harinesia :  but  only  the  common 
people  and  the  Mandarins,  and  We  of  the  Bow  who  serve  no 
man  save  only  our  country.  And  the  common  people,  being 
foolish,  do  not  understand  these  things,  wherefore  all  the 
produce  of  their  labour,  the  rice  and  the  poppy-seeds,  the 
coals  and  the  cotton,  the  silks  and  the  mulberries,  they 
give  to  the  Mandarins.  And  these  riches  the  Mandarins 
take,  giving  back  to  the  common  people  only  so  much  rice  as 
will  keep  them  alive,  and  enough  cotton  wherewith  to  clothe 
themselves,  and  a  little  coal  for  the  cooking.  Wherefore  / 
say" — Akiou's  voice  rose  in  sudden  anger — "beware  of  the 
Mandarins,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight.  For  if  thou  art  no 
merchant,  then  they  will  cheat  thee  over  the  buying  of  the 
poppy-seed;  and  if,  as  I  think,  the  buying  of  the  poppy-seed 
is  but  thy  pretence,  then,  beware  of  them  doubly  .  .  . 
lest  ye  three  die  the  same  death  as  N'ging." 

And  without  another  word  Akiou — the  great  cat  following, 
tail  erect,  at  his  heels — strode  off  across  the  clearing. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTEENTH 

Of  a  strange  boat,  and  a  strange  country,  and  a  strange  old  song 

THEY  handed  over  The  Gates  at  dawn :  to  a  company  of 
archers  so  exactly  similar  to  Akiou's  that  the  Long'un, 
quaffing  a  horn  of  Puerh  tea  at  the  door  of  his  quarters 
marvelled  how  their  captain — a  tall,  hairy  Harinesian  whose 
black  moustaches  upcurled  fiercely  to  the  cheek-pieces  of 
his  yellow-plumed  helmet — could  distinguish  relievers  from 
relieved,    as   they   marched   and   countermarched   through 
curious  ceremonials  up  and  down  the  clearing. 

"Wonder  where  those  chaps  came  from?"  mused  the 
Long'un,  who  thought  that  by  now  he  knew  most  of  the 
jungle-paths.  "Must  say  that  these  savages  are  pretty 
efficient. ' '  And  for  the  fiftieth  time — listening  to  the  guttural 
commands  that  issued  from  under  the  newcomer's  moustache 
— he  pondered  his  fantastic  theory  of  the  bowmen's  origin. 

Then  he  turned  into  the  armoury;  heard  Beamish  whistling 
merrily  from  the  sleeping-chamber;  and  began  to  don  his 

weapons. 

*         *         *         *         * 

The  three  adventurers  had  scarcely  slept.  Akiou's 
stories  and  Akiou's  warnings — translated  and  re-translated, 
debated  and  re-debated — had  kept  their  floor-lamp  burning 
till  nearly  sun-up. 

From  that  amazing  welter  of  mythology — for  mythology, 
Beamish  excepted,  they  decided  it — one  certainty  alone 
emerged,  star-clear:  the  Flower  Folk  existed!  And  the 
Flower  Folk,  "bearded  white  men  with  weapons  of  fire  and 
beautiful  white  women,"  could  be  none  other  than  the  direct 
descendants  of  those  French  filibusters  who  disappeared  from 
human  knowledge  in  the  last  year  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

175 


176  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

De  Gys,  who  had  scarcely  faltered  in  his  first  belief, 
accepted  its  confirmation  with  a  sublime,  "You  see,  my 
friends,  that  faith  justifies  herself" — and  let  imagination  run 
riot.  They  would  get  in  touch  with  these  "  Bloo  Loy  " ;  rescue 
them;  lead  them  back  in  triumph  to  civilization;  present  their 
leaders — "aristocrats,  mon  cher,  aristocrats  of  the  old  regime'* 
— to  the  President  of  the  Republic;  write  a  great  book  about 
Harinesia;  be  decorated  by  the  "Roy ale  Societe  de  la 
Geographic  Anglaise,"  etcaetera,  etcaetera. 

To  the  Long'un  (though  de  Gys'  programme  savoured  of 
the  theatrical,  and  he  contented  himself — just  before  drows- 
ing off — with  the  thought,  "Poor  devils !  After  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years  in  the  wilds  they'll  be  almost  as  savage  as 
the  Harinesians")  Akiou's  reference  to  the  Bloo  Loy  also 
seemed  the  only  really  important  fact  in  Akiou's  story. 

But  the  mind  of  Cyprian  Beamish — fuddled  by  over-much 
study  of  sociological  problems — found  it  difficult  to  separate 
the  wheat  of  their  quest  from  the  chaff  of  Harinesian  legend. 

The  Socialist  was  not  unexcited  by  the  tragedy  of  the 
Flower  Folk:  on  the  contrary,  their  situation — hemmed  in 
by  a  hostile  people — moved  him  enormously.  Naturally 
these  aristocrats  must  be  rescued,  brought  back  to  the  glorious 
democratic  world  of  nineteen  twenty.  And  if,  rescuing  them, 
one  found  the  Flower;  if  all  humanity  benefited;  even  if  one 
benefited  oneself  .  .  .  "Of  course  it  must  be  done,"  said 
Beamish.  "At  all  costs — however  correct  Akiou's  warnings, 
however  debased  these  descendants  of  feudalistic  filibuster- 
ing— our  task  is  to  save  them."  Still — the  history  of  Hari- 
nesia was  worth  attention. 

"After  all,"  decided  the  doctor,  momentarily  conquering 
his  new  prejudices,  "the  yellow  men  are  our  brothers.  We 
must  not  neglect  the  lessons  they  can  teach  us."  And  pre- 
suming that  Akiou,  averse  as  all  soldiers  to  democratic 
government,  must  be  prejudiced  against  the  Mandarins, 
he  made  him  the  following  theory. 

The  Harinesians,  originally  a  war-like  people  ruled  by 
a  chieftain  and  exploited  by  piratical  petty  capitalists,  had 
advanced  a  stage  when  they  took  Kahl-ma's  advice  and 


OF  A  STRANGE  BOAT  177 

turned  against  their  tyrants.  On  the  return  of  the  bow- 
men— "force!",  mused  Beamish,  "always  this  accursed  doc- 
trine of  force  " — they  had  relapsed  into  barbarism,  from  which 
the  Mandarins,  obviously  better  educated  than  the  soldiery, 
were  even  now  trying — and  trying  successfully — to  rescue 
them.  "  The  Mandarins  and  the  workers ! "  mused  Beamish. 
"Brains  and  Manual  Labour.  Nationalization  of  industry. 
State  Socialism  under  primitive  conditions.  Naturally, 
Akiou  would  hate  it.  How  interesting!  How  extraordi- 
narily jolly  and  interesting!" 

Which  explains  why  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.  D.,  Glasgow, 
whistled  merrily  as  he  pulled  on  his  wide  yellow  silk  trousers. 


"And  our  caravan,  Akiou?  "  De  Gys,  kilted  and  helmeted, 
polished  cuirass  winking  yellow  through  the  meshes  of  his 
beard,  Sword  Straight — four  feet  of  thin  scabbardless  steel — 
belted  high  round  his  middle,  slapped  one  ringing  greave 
with  the  blade  of  his  throwing-axe. 

"Have  no  fear" — the  Harinesian  gave  a  final  glance  at 
his  men,  standing  rigid  to  attention — "the  caravan  will 
wait.  It  cannot  return  foodless.  Is  Bearer  of  Bow  Skelvi 
ready?" 

"We  are  all  four  ready." 

"It  is  good.  Let  us  march."  He  barked  orders,  and 
the  company  set  off  Indian-file  across  the  clearing. 

"You  do  not  lead?"  asked  the  Frenchman. 

"My  place  is  at  the  rear,"  answered  Akiou,  proudly. 

The  guide  of  the  line  disappeared  between  tree-trunks. 
Followed  twelve  men  with  axes;  the  food-carriers,  bamboo 
tubes  of  compressed  rice  affixed  like  organ-pipes  to  their 
backs,  water-gourds  at  their  belts;  porters  with  the  specie- 
boxes;  twenty-five  picked  swordsmen;  and  the  remainder  of 
the  fighting-force,  fifty  strong,  bows  carried  at  the  trail. 
Behind  these  marched  the  runner-boys,  and  Phu-nan,  de 
Gys'  telescope  gripped  like  a  Field  Marshal's  baton  in  his 
brown  fingers. 

"You  next,"  said  Akiou. 


178  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

The  Long'un,  lankily  gigantic  under  his  plumeless  helmet, 
de  Gys,  and  Beamish — feeling  curiously  insignificant,  naked 
and  weaponless  between  them — moved  off  with  a  swish  of 
silk,  a  clink  of  chain-mail,  and  a  rattle  of  brass.  Akiou 
brought  up  the  tail  of  the  column;  and  Pittising,  the  gigan- 
tic cat — equally  true  to  the  traditions  of  his  breed — watched 
it  disappear  into  the  forest,  speculating  behind  the  un- 
emotional arrow-slits  of  his  green  eyes  whether  the  new- 
comers would  be  equally  liberal  with  their  peacock  bones. 


They  marched,  by  one  of  the  trails  Beamish  had  vainly 
attempted  to  explore,  past  four  sentries,  arms  raised  in 
stiff  salute,  through  a  dark  tunnel  of  hacked  jungle,  across 
an  empty  clearing;  struck  a  broad  turf -path  between  blazed 
trees.  It  was  still  early,  and  the  high  ribbon  of  sky  above 
their  heads  looked  white  and  cool  beyond  its  bordering 
branches. 

"You'll  be  grilled  in  that  kit,  Long'un,"  suggested  Beam- 
ish, joining  his  friend. 

"And  you'll  get  sun-stroke  without  a  helmet." 

De  Gys  had  fallen  back  beside  Akiou;  and  the  two  English- 
men tramped  on  together. 

"You're  a  militarist  at  heart,  you  know,  Long'un.  All 
this  warlike  paraphernalia  comes  naturally  to  you." 

"Something  in  heredity,  I  suppose,  doc.  I  felt  awfully 
queer  the  first  time  I  loosed  off  a  bow.  As  if  I'd  done  it 
before.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes."  Beamish  hesitated.  "But  my  ancestors  must 
have  been  bowmen  at  some  time  or  other." 

"Oh,  you!    You're  over-civilized." 

They  chaffed  each  other,  with  perfect  amiability,  for 
another  mile;  till  the  doctor  broached  his  newly  formed 
theory  of  Harinesian  Socialism,  and  the  Long'un,  already 
sweating  from  the  exercise,  began  to  lose  his  temper. 

"God  save  us  from  cranks,"  snapped  Long'un.  "You're 
a  nice  chap  to  come  adventuring  with.  The  next  bee  you'll 
get  into  your  bonnet  is  that  Kahl-ma  is  an  Oriental  re- 


OF  A  STRANGE  BOAT  179 

incarnation  of  Karl  Marx  and  the  Harinesian  lan- 
guage. .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  prompted  a  submissive  Beamish:  but  extracted  no 
reply  from  the  mailed  man  at  his  side.  "If  I've  got  a  bee 
in  my  bonnet,  he's  got  one  under  his  helmet,"  mused  the 
Socialist;  "and  it's  buzzing  pretty  hard  at  the  moment." 
For  Dicky  had  begun  to  whistle  with  pursed  lips — the  half- 
dubious,  half-convinced  whistle  of  the  white  man  in  mental 
difficulty. 

Tiffin  of  cold  tea,  compressed  rice,  and  boar's  meat, 
eaten  squatting  under  branch-boles — for  by  now  the  mid- 
day sun  stood  vertical  above  the  turf-path — found  the 
Long'un  still  disinclined  to  gossip. 

Tiffin  over,  they  plucked  gummy  leaves  from  the  dip- 
terocarpi,  affixed  them  between  head  and  helmet  for  fear 
of  the  sun;  and  marched  again,  hour  after  hour,  till  Beamish — 
who  had  needed  improvise  a  turban  of  foliage — felt  almost 
ready  to  drop.  The  path  wound  on  and  on,  unending, 
through  the  forest. 

" But  the  river,"  thought  Cyprian  Beamish.  "Where's  the 
river?  De  Gys  said  we  went  by  river." 

Sweat  blinded  him;  he  could  no  longer  see  the  runner-boys 
ahead,  only  hear  their  guttural  laughter,  and  underneath  it — 
like  the  beat  of  a  machine — click-click  of  soleless  sollerets  on 
hard  ground,  swing-and-clink  of  mailed  kilts,  tap-tap  of 
sloped  bows  against  the  shoulder-pieces  of  the  breast- 
plates. .  .  . 

"Doc's  fainted,"  called  the  Long'un.  De  Gys  clattered 
up,  and  between  them  they  carried  the  grotesque  figure,  bare 
feet  dangling  limply,  leaf-turbaned  head  bobbing  like  a 
drunken  Bacchanal's,  for  the  last  half  mile. 


Cyprian  Beamish  opened  his  eyes,  asked  the  conventional, 
"what  happened?",  drained  a  steaming  horn  of  orange- 
scented  Puerh  which  the  Long'un  handed  him,  and  gazed 
about  in  wonderment. 

They  had  halted  in  a  huge  red-sanded  quadrilateral,  each 


180  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

of  whose  sides,  nearly  half  a -mile  long,  was  bounded  by 
the  black  hundred-foot  dipterocarpi  of  Harinesia.  Through 
the  centre  of  this  clearing  ran  the  Harin,  swift  ripples 
red  under  the  red-tinged  sky;  and  on  it,  barely  ten  yards 
from  Beamish's  eyes,  straining  at  her  moorings  among  those 
swift  red  ripples,  rode  a  boat — the  strangest  boat  Beamish 
had  ever  seen. 

Her  sides,  smooth  as  a  battleship's,  rose,  twenty  sheer  feet 
of  arrow-slitted  brass,  from  low  freeboard  to  projecting  top- 
deck — already  crowded  with  embarking  men.  Above  this 
top-deck  bow  and  stern  curled  back,  aft  and  fore,  in  two 
dragon-headed  swan-necks.  Her  length,  from  dragon-head 
to  dragon-head,  was  a  hundred  and  thirty  feet,  and  her 
beam  forty.  She  drew — so  far  as  the  doctor  could  judge — 
very  little  water.  The  only  way  of  getting  abroad  seemed 
to  be  a  covered  gang-way,  up-slanted  at  a  terrifying  angle 
from  the  bank. 

And  at  the  foot  of  this  gang-way  Beamish  saw — for  the 
first  time — Harinesian  women.  There  were  half  a  dozen  of 
them,  submissive  creatures,  rather  like  kittens,  slitty-eyed, 
butter-complexioned.  Their  hair,  jet-black  and  bobbed  in 
the  fashion  of  yellow-island-country,  revealed  square  fore- 
heads, high  brows,  and  close-set  ears,  lobes  distended  by 
heavy  common  ornaments.  Long  chains  of  pebbles,  wire- 
strung,  hung  from  neck  to  ankle.  Their  noses  were  straight, 
their  cheekbones  high,  the  lemons  of  their  breasts  bare, 
and  their  skirts,  of  practically  transparent  yellow  cotton, 
exiguous. 

"Feeling  better,  old  thing?"  asked  Dicky. 

"Ye-es.  I  say,  Long'un,  I'm  not  dreaming,  am  I?  This 
boat;  and  those — er" — Beamish  blushed — "ladies.  They're 
real,  I  suppose." 

"Very  much  so.  Especially  the  ladies.  You  should  have 
seen  'em  when  de  Gys  and  I  arrived." 

The  Long'un,  too,  blushed,  remembering  how  the  six  had 
knelt  before  him,  clasping  his  knees.  Then  he  frowned,  for 
it  had  not  been  pretty  to  see  Akiou  beat  off  the  suppliants — 
forest  girls  anxious  for  free  passage  to  City  Bu-ro — with  the 


OF  A  STRANGE  BOAT  181 

flat  of  his  throwing-axe.  One  of  them  still  bore  the  mark 
of  that  beating,  a  square  livid  bruise  on  her  thin  back. 

"We'll  climb  aboard  if  you're  rested,  doc.  The  liner's 
due  out  at  once." 

"But  how  the  dickens  do  they  get  her  along?" 

"Polers.  From  the  top  decks.  Those  dragon-things  are 
rudders.  Apparently,  she  steers  bow  and  stern." 

"Good  Lord!" 

They  threaded  their  way  through  the  disappointed  women; 
made  the  mouth  of  the  gang- way;  crawled,  breast  to  bamboo- 
rungs,  up  its  brass-sided  tunnel;  emerged  on  the  black-wood 
deck;  were  given  a  glimpse  of  naked  men  hauling  brass-shod 
poles  from  the  scuppers,  escorted  by  Akiou  down  a  per- 
pendicular ladder  into  a  long  corridor,  lamp  burning  either 
end,  black-wood  doors  opening  either  side;  opened  one  of 
the  doors,  and  found  de  Gys,  already  in  coatee  and  trousers, 
sitting  down  by  the  light  of  a  table-lamp  to  an  enormous  bowl 
of  rice  and  boar's  flesh. 

"I  must  return  to  the  deck,"  said  Akiou.  "Meanwhile, 
the  servants  shall  bring  food." 

Long'un  disappeared  to  doff  his  harness;  and  Beamish  sat 
down. 

"Better?"  rumbled  the  Frenchman. 

"Rather." 

"Nice  quarters." 

"Excellent." 

The  cabin,  with  its  hard  floor,  its  lamp  and  its  arrow-slits, 
seemed  curiously  familiar;  but  it  was  not  till  they  had 
finished  their  meal  and  explored  all  the  lower  deck,  from  the 
men's  quarters  aft  through  the  cooking  place  amidships  to 
Akiou's  apartments  in  the  prow,  that  Beamish  discovered  the 
whole  interior  of  the  "liner"  to  be  an  exact  replica  of  the 
curly-gabled  barrack  at  The  Gates. 

"The  Harinesians,"  said  Dicky,  "evidently  believe  in 
standardization.  Let's  go  top  side." 

They  climbed  the  bamboo  companion-way;  found  them- 
selves in  cool,  star-lit  darkness. 

Port  and  starboard,  towering  over  the  deck,  rose  the  eter- 


182  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

nal  trees  of  yellow-island-country.  Gigantic  fireflies,  sparkl- 
ing here  and  there  among  the  dark  of  the  branches,  revealed 
in  faintest  silhouette  the  forms  of  the  twenty  polers — ten 
aside  and  two  to  a  pole — yellow  automata,  running  forward, 
arms  raised,  walking  aft  arms  lowered  to  the  bending  larch. 
At  the  bow-rudder,  dragon-head  tucked  under  left  arm-pit, 
stood  Akiou,  in  the  stern,  his  second  steersman.  Helped 
by  the  current,  the  boat  was  making  a  good  three  knots. 

"  Fantastique  !  "  muttered  de  Gys.  "  Unbelievable ! "  He 
sniffed  luxuriously  at  the  jungle-smell — that  rare  odour  of 
the  tangled  wild  which  is  breath  of  life  to  his  breed. 

They  glided  on.  Here  and  there,  red  lights  gleamed  like 
eyes  round  the  river-bends.  They  heard  the  bay  of  a  tiger, 
leap  of  fishes,  a  wild  boar  rooting  on  the  bank,  snuffle  of 
deer  watering. 

"Bed!"  decided  the  Englishmen,  prosaically. 

But  Rene  de  Gys  let  them  go  alone;  stood  fast  under  the 
gliding  stars.  For  now  it  seemed  to  the  mind  of  Rene  de 
Gys  as  though  the  adventure  of  adventures  loomed  very 
nigh.  .  .  . 


When  the  three  awoke  next  morning  the  house-boat  was 
at  anchor;  and  peeping  through  the  arrow-slits  above  their 
couches,  they  could  see  First  Block-house.  It  stood, 
miniature  replica  of  their  original  quarters,  on  a  sandy 
rectangular  eyot  in  mid-stream.  Four  sentries,  fully 
panoplied,  bows  strung,  arrow-stand  at  their  feet,  guarded  its 
four  water-approaches.  Before  the  three  could  make  closer 
inspection,  they  heard  the  plash  of  poles  dropping;  heard 
the  creak  of  steering-rudders;  saw  pole  pass  arrow-slit; 
watched  the  block-house  slide,  disappear;  knew  themselves 
once  more  among  forest. 

By  the  time  they  had  finished  breakfast — Phu-nan 
brought  with  their  tea  slices  of  some  evil-smelling  fruit 
which  de  Gys  judged  a  species  of  durian — and  came  on  deck, 
the  trees  had  receded  a  good  half-mile  from  either  bank. 

Irrigated  fields  of  black  alluvial  soil  stretched  between  them 


OF  A  STRANGE  BOAT  183 

and  the  trees.  At  regular  intervals,  each  apparently  bounded 
by  an  equal  square  of  irrigation-ditching,  and  each — with  its 
bamboo  walls,  its  thatched  roof,  its  patch  of  vegetable  gar- 
den, its  tethered  goat,  and  its  somnolent  pig — exactly  like  its 
neighbour,  the  houses  of  the  fieldworkers  dotted  the  chess- 
board landscape. 

Hundreds  of  nude  yellow  men,  and  a  sprinkling  of  kilted 
girls — each  of  whom  might  have  been  sister  to  those  they  had 
seen  on  the  previous  evening — were  at  work,  cleaning  out  the 
irrigation-ditches,  furrowing  the  soil  with  crude  hand- 
ploughs,  transplanting  the  second  poppy-crop,  seedling  by 
tiny  seedling,  from  its  sprouting-beds. 

Some  of  the  girls,  especially  those  at  work  near  the  banks, 
looked  up  from  their  labours;  made  signals  to  the  passing 
boat.  But  none  of  the  men  seemed  to  take  the  slightest 
interest  in  its  passage. 

"Common  people,"  remarked  Akiou,  joining  them.  He 
wore  only  the  kilt  and  bracer;  but  the  bow  he  carried  was 
strung,  and  a  full  quiver  hung  from  his  shoulder.  "Some- 
times they  are  idle.  Then  we  are  allowed  to  shoot  a  few—- 
for practice.  But  not  enough — not  nearly  enough." 

De  Gys  translated;  and  Beamish,  who  had  been  finding  the 
scene  "rather  jolly" — it  reminded  him  somehow  of  a  rural 
State  as  described  by  Prince  Kropotkin — shivered,  though 
the  sun  felt  hot  on  his  back. 

"But  would  not  a  beating  suffice?"  asked  the  Frenchman. 

"It  is  the  order  of  the  Mandarins;  and,  for  once,  a  wise 
order."  The  Harinesian  twanged  thoughtfully  on  his  bow- 
string. "  In  the  days  of  Kahl-ma,  as  I  think  I  told  you,  the 
people  grew  very  idle.  But  now,  being  afraid  of  the  Bow, 
they  labour  well." 

Said  de  Gys,  casually,  for  one  must  not  ask  an  Oriental 
direct  questions  about  his  women-folk:  "The  girls  are  few." 

"And  ugly."  Akiou  laughed.  "What  would  you?  Such 
as  are  well  favoured  the  Mandarins  take  to  wife.  We 
also.  .  .  ."  He  hesitated,  bit  off  the  sentence,  lit  a 
cheroot,  and  sat  down,  legs  akimbo,  on  one  of  the  specie- 
boxes. 


184  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

All  that  day  they  poled  past  the  opium-fields.  With 
evening  forest  closed  in  on  them  once  more  as  they  rounded 
Second  Block-house;  but  next  morning  the  trees  had  again 
receded.  Now  they  were  among  the  rice-plantations. 

Here  the  black  chessboard  squares  had  already  greened 
over;  the  rooves  of  the  cabins  showed  brown  and  regular 
above  shimmering  jade.  All  along  the  river-banks  workers 
loaded  the  first  crop,  husked,  into  open  barges;  and  men,  men 
of  the  Bow  with  strung  weapons,  watched  them. 

"Because  otherwise  they  steal,''  explained  Akiou.  He 
spat  accurately  overside  between  the  polers;  subsided  into 
silence. 


So  they  poled  on,  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  down 
the  yellow  mainstream  of  the  Harin.  The  river  wound  and 
wound:  round  the  innumerable  islands,  each  with  its  block- 
house and  sentry-guard,  under  innumerable  miles  of 
branches;  past  innumerable  clearings. 

Everywhere  the  black  soil  sprouted  wealth:  Indian  corn, 
cotton,  tobacco,  cocoa-pods  and  sago,  mulberries  and  pine- 
apples. They  saw  red  alluvial  tin-mines,  salt-pans,  open 
seams  of  coal  and  lignite,  teak-plantations,  groves  of  curious 
trees  which  might  have  been  rubber;  pasture  so  rich  that  it 
almost  hid  the  grazing  buffaloes. 

All  along  the  river  they  passed  barges,  produce-laden, 
drifting  citywards;  and  everywhere  along  the  river  they  saw 
the  common  people  of  Harinesia:  living,  working,  sleeping, 
eating,  forwarding  their  produce,  building  their  houses  and 
bringing  up  their  children  exactly  as  the  Mandarins  decreed. 

But  nowhere  along  the  river,  save  only  when  they  came  to 
City  Bu-ro,  did  they  see  a  happy  face! 


Fourteen  days  out  from  The  Gates  forests  and  forest- 
clearing  gave  way  to  plain-land.  Here  they  could  see  traces 
of  an  older  civilization:  rums  of  stone-built  villages;  canals 
silted  dry  or  green  with  weeds;  broken-down  pagodas; 


OF  A  STRANGE  BOAT  185 

marble  yamens  and  bridges  fallen  into  decay;  market-places 
where  only  gray  apes  chattered  and  the  wild  boars  rooted  and 
throaty  lizards  dozed  all  noon  in  the  hot  sunlight. 

"The  Cities  of  the  Merchants,"  explained  Akiou.  "All 
these  perished  long  since  at  the  hands  of  Kahl-ma." 

Desolation  slid  astern;  and  suddenly  they  saw  Bu-ro  her- 
self, looming  low  and  far  across  the  violet  shimmer  of  plain- 
land.  At  that  distance,  in  that  vague,  uncertain  light  which 
baffled  the  telescope,  all  architectural  details — even  the 
Propylons  of  Great  Stadium  and  the  Barracks  of  the  Bow- 
men, and  the  Pyramid  of  the  Emperor — were  blurred  to 
indeterminate  shapes,  black  humps  against  the  westering  sun. 

But  to  Akiou  the  glimpse  sufficed.  With  a  shout  to  the 
steersman  astern,  he  dropped  the  dragon-tiller  from  his  arm- 
pit, and  stood  erect,  both  arms  raised,  elbows  outwards,  in  the 
ancient  salute,  the  salute  which  They  of  the  Bow  gave  to  their 
Emperor  when  the  victorious  host  came  home  from  the  sack 
of  Angkor  Wat.  And  all  the  polers  ceased  from  their  poling, 
raising  the  larches  upwards,  two  by  two,  till  they  stood  mast- 
like  above  the  deck. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Long'un  heard  the  Blood  Song  of 
the  Harinesians,  the  song  which  is  older  than  earth  herself. 

There  is  neither  time  nor  tune  to  that  song,  neither  rhyme 
nor  rhythm  nor  reason;  only  the  old  words,  Hate  and  male- 
volent Force,  and  the  Twang  of  the  Arrow  as  it  leaves  the 
tautened  string;  and  Akiou  sang  it  standing,  the  blood-light 
in  his  eyes,  arms  raised  to  the  blood  of  the  sunset. 

"West — west — west  !"  sang  Akiou.  "  The  gods  came  out  of 
the  sunrise.  Do  the  gods  live  ?  " 

"Nay — nay — nay!"  sang  the  polers.  "The  gods  are 
dead.  We  slew  them  with  the  bow.  West — west — west,  they 
went.  Into  the  sunset.  The  sunset  is  red  with  the  blood  of 
the  gods." 

"And  they  shall  not  live  again."  Now  the  harsh  voices  of 
the  men  shrilled  high  above  their  leader's.  "  They  shall  not 
live.  For  we  hated  the  gods.  The  Bow — the  Bow — the  Bow 
slew  them.  We — we — we  slew  them.  For  the  King,  the 
King,  the  King  is  our  master,  and  we  are  above  the  gods." 


186  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Abruptly,  as  it  had  begun,  the  song  ended.  Raised  larches 
dropped  to  water  with  a  splash.  The  blood-light  faded  from 
Akiou's  eyes.  Again  he  leaned  to  the  dragon-tiller;  again  he 
was  the  Oriental,  smooth-faced,  impassive,  a  yellow  mystery 
between  the  sunset  and  the  night. 

"It  is  our  custom,"  he  muttered  to  de  Gys.  "They  are 
very  ancient  verses;  I  cannot  translate  them  into  the  Kwan- 
hwa  which  you  speak." 

"Old  customs  are  good  customs,"  answered  the  French- 
man, who  had  not  understood.  But  the  Long'un,  under- 
standing, shivered — even  as  Beamish  had  shivered  at  the 
poppy-fields. 


That  evening  they  moored  at  Last  Island — the  usual 
sandy  eyot  in  mid-stream;  and  finding  the  block-house 
unaccountably  empty,  let  down  the  gang-plank,  disembarked. 
There  was  a  leaf  of  palmetto,  pinned  with  a  hunting-arrow 
to  the  door;  and  Aikou,  reading  the  brushed  hieroglyphics, 
laughed  aloud. 

"Listen,"  said  the  Harinesian.  "The  women  in  City 
Bu-ro  be  many.  Here,  on  this  island,  are  no  women.  We 
return  at  dawn."  And  he  added,  "It  is  good  to  be  of  the 
Inner  Guard." 

They  re-embarked  again;  and  all  that  night  the  outer 
walls  of  their  floating  barracks  shook  to  the  rubbing  of  many 
hands;  and  within,  the  burnishers  clinked  on  kilts  of  mail, 
and  the  men  chattered  gutturally  together  as  they  polished 
bows  and  harness  against  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER  THE  SIXTEENTH 

How  Bow  Skelvi  and   Sword  Straight  came  to  City  Bu-ro 

D~E  GYS,  what  are  your  plans?"  The  Long'un, 
panoplied  from  helm  to  sollerets,  rapier  at  his  belt, 
Bow  Skelvi  in  his  hand,  watched  Last  Island  vanish 
astern.  High  dawn-mist  still  shrouded  the  plain.  Akiou 
and  Beamish  were  below,  the  decks  deserted  save  for  the 
naked  polers  and  the  silent  steersmen. 

"Plans?"  De  Gys  fidgeted  with  his  sword-hilt.  "How 
can  one  plan?  We  are  two  men  against  a  nation." 

"You  forget  Beamish  and  Phu-nan." 

"A  savage  and  a  Socialist.  Pah!"  One  vast  hand  took 
counsel  with  the  beard;  red-brown  eyes  glanced  down  at  the 
specie-boxes.  "Think  you  we  can  buy  these  Mandarins  as 
we  bought  Mother  Mathurin?" 

"Negrini  seems  to  have  tried  that — and  failed." 

"Aye.  He  gave  Kun-mer  ten  thousand  piastres.  Surely 
we  can  trade  on  that  bribe." 

"I  doubt  it."  The  Long'un  shook  his  head;  and  the  loose 
helm  shook  with  it — for  Phu-nan  had  shorn  all  three  ad- 
venturers the  previous  evening.  "Curse  these  tin  coal- 
scuttles! After  fourteen  days  one  loses  the  habit  of  them." 

"At  least  you  look  impressive,  my  friend.  A  very  pillar 
of  brass.  Undoubtedly,  it  is  of  you  that  the  woman  Su-rah 
will  fall  amorous." 

"I  sincerely  hope  not,"  said  Dicky. 

De  Gys  laughed.  "Ah,  you  Anglo-Saxons!  Always  the 
prudes!  Do  not  panic,  mon  vieux:  I  give  you  my  word 
that  your  virtue  shall  be  protected.  But  our  plans?" — 
he  grew  serious  again — "Have  you  a  scheme,  Colonel?" 

"Yes."    The  firm  lips  under  the  flat  moustache  spoke 

187 


188  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

% 

crisply.  "Somehow  or  other,  we  must  learn  the  way  to 
Quivering  Stone — and  make  a  bolt  for  it.  Once  among  the 
Flower  Folk,  we  ought  to  be  able.  .  .  ." 

Akiou,  appearing  suddenly  on  deck,  cut  short  the  con- 
versation. The  Harinesian  wore  the  silver  harness  and  the 
silver  helmet  of  full-dress  ceremonial.  After  him,  swarming 
one  by  one  up  the  companion-ladder,  came  the  company — all 
save  the  runner-boys,  the  twenty  at  the  poles,  and  the  two  at 
the  dragon-tillers — in  complete  war-kit,  bows  strung,  bracers 
and  gauntlets  fastened,  arrows  gripped  by  the  middle  in  their 
left  hands.  Silently  they  took  station  in  a  double  line,  facing 
outwards,  down  the  centre  of  the  deck. 

His  men  placed,  Akiou  strode  forward;  laid  his  bow  against 
the  rail;  dismissed  the  steersman;  took  the  tiller  himself. 
Following  him  past  the  long  line  of  rigid  men,  de  Gys  and 
Dicky  saw  that  the  dawn-mist  had  not  yet  sunk  to  river- 
level. 

The  polished  rudder-arm,  curving  outwards  and  down- 
wards to  the  yellow  water,  just  visible  twenty  feet  below 
them,  held  straight  to  mid-stream.  To  port,  a  white  radi- 
ance in  the  slather  indicated  sunrise.  Starboard,  their 
oblong  shadow  slid  solid  over  fog.  Ahead  all  was  vague, 
unreal. 

"Cold."  Beamish,  bare  feet  inaudible  on  the  hardwood 
deck,  had  joined  them. 

"  For  you."  De  Gys  glanced  rather  contemptuously  at  the 
shivering  figure  in  its  yellow  silk. 

"Say  that  Skelvi  should  be  strung,"  called  back  Akiou, 
eyes  fixed  on  the  dim  banks  forward.  "We  approach 
Inner  Gate." 

De  Gys  translated;  and  Long'un,  holding  the  seven-foot 
weapon  between  bare  knees,  rested  lower  nock  on  the  ankle- 
piece  of  left  solleret.  His  right  hand,  raised  to  eye-level, 
gripped  smooth  wood,  drew  it  down  to  him;  his  left  slid  loose 
gut  easily  over  top  nock.  Then,  very  slowly,  the  right 
eased  its  pressure,  and  the  string  stood  rigid  across  the 
belly  of  the  bow. 

There  had  been  no  appearance  of  effort  in  the  Long'un's 


BOW  SKELVI  AND  SWORD  STRAIGHT      189 

action;  but  Akiou,  who  knew  bows  and  knew  that  no  other 
man  in  yellow-island-country  could  string  Skelvi,  glanced 
sideways  from  the  tiller  in  wonderment  at  the  feat.  He  gave 
an  order;  and  the  rigid  men  stood  easy. 

Gradually,  mist  cleared.  Veil  by  veil,  the  slather  thinned 
ahead.  Port  and  starboard  the  fogs  sank.  And  abruptly, 
they  saw  Inner  Gate. 

Either  side  of  them  the  banks  still  shelved  to  blank  sky- 
lines. In  front,  barely  eight  hundred  yards  away,  straddling 
the  yellow  carpet  of  the  stream  on  two  enormous  buttresses, 
loomed  a  great  archway  of  jet-black  stone. 

Sun,  just  climbing  horizon,  struck  dark  fire  from  the  hewn 
vaultings,  from  the  obscene  shapes  that  sprawled  and 
crawled  over  the  gigantic  keystone,  over  extrados  and 
intrados,  over  voussoirs  and  springers  and  imposts  of  the 
piers.  East  and  west  from  the  piers  low  earthworks  guarded 
the  river;  and  as  distance  narrowed,  they  could  see  that  these 
earthworks  were  lined  with  archers  who  climbed  the  shooting 
step  at  their  approach,  stood  rigid,  bows  high  in  salute. 

Akiou  called  an  order;  and  the  men  on  deck  stiffened  to 
attention. 

At  half  bow-shot  they  saw  the  full  height  of  the  Gate. 
Huge  and  forbidding  it  towered  over  their  path :  on  very  top 
of  it,  tiny  and  dark  against  the  white  of  the  sky,  watched  a 
dozen  sentries,  bows  at  the  ready,  arrow-stands  at  their 
feet;  and  below,  tiny  against  the  dark  of  the  westward 
buttress,  watched  Keo,  Captain  of  the  Inner  Guard. 

Now  it  is  an  old  order  of  the  Emperor  which  even  the 
Mandarins  dare  not  repeal,  that  none  speak  nor  move  when 
the  Boat  passes  under  Inner  Gate;  but  as  he  stood,  statue- 
like,  sword-thumb  at  lips;  as  he  watched,  over  the  flat  of  his 
sword-hilt,  Akiou's  silver  figure  gliding  nearer  and  nearer, 
Keo,  Captain  of  the  Inner  Guard,  felt  his  steady  eyes  turn  in 
their  sockets,  felt  the  tongue  in  his  mouth  quiver  with  the 
urge  of  a  thousand  questions.  For  on  either  side  of  that 
silver  figure  Keo  saw  giants,  two  giants  of  the  Bloo  Loy :  one 
red-bearded  to  the  sword-belt,  whose  great  blade  rose  up 
long  as  a  man  from  his  plumeless  helmet;  and  the  other,  taller 


190  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

by  a  span  than  him  of  the  beard,  brandishing  a  bow — nay, 
not  a  bow  but  the  very  Mother  of  all  the  Bows.  .  .  . 

"Magnificent,  mon  ami,  we  impress  the  savages,"  whis- 
pered de  Gys  as  the  keystone  slid  over  them;  and  he  lowered 
his.  sword  from  the  salute. 

Then  the  sombreness  of  Inner  Gate  held  even  de  Gys 
speechless.  High  over  their  heads  the  vaultings  arched  to 
bat-haunted  darkness.  Hewn  stone  echoed  back  the  muffled 
reverberations  of  their  progress — splash  and  scrape  of  poles, 
creak  of  rudders,  tireless  pad  of  naked  feet.  .  .  . 

"Militarism!"  said  Beamish's  voice.  "Militarist  play- 
acting." 

"Militarism  undoubtedly — but  not  play-acting."  They 
had  reached  daylight  again;  and  the  Long'un,  as  he  spoke, 
pointed  upwards  and  backwards  with  his  bow.  "Hardly 
play-acting." 

Beamish — following  the  line  of  the  bow — saw,  hanging 
limp  and  motionless  among  the  obscene  carvings  of  the 
westward  buttress-face,  four  yellow  figures — each  with  an 
arrow  through  its  throat. 

"The  women  in  City  Bu-ro  be  many — but  those  four  did 
not  return  to  Last  Island  at  dawn,"  chuckled  Akiou.  And 
Dicky,  understanding,  felt  long  fingers  itch  to  the  rapier  at 
his  belt. 


Beyond  Inner  Gate  the  Harin  broadens  and  slows  for  three 
weary  miles  between  bare  crested  banks  that  hide  the  City. 
Akiou,  telling  off  three  mailed  men  to  each  larch,  ordered 
the  naked  polers  to  accoutre. 

"Let  us  eat,"  he  said;  and  the  three  followed  him  below; 
imitated  his  silence  throughout  the  meal.  When  they  came 
back  to  the  deck  sun  was  already  high,  but  City  Bu-ro  still 
slept,  and  the  bare  banks  held  never  a  sightseer. 

So,  unheralded,  they  came  to  Arrow  Quays. 

Here,  where  the  waterways  deepen  between  great  plat- 
forms of  axe-hewn  black-stone,  the  Harin  forks.  Northwards, 
straight  as  an  arrow-shaft,  runs  the  channelled  mainstream; 


BOW  SKELVI  AND  SWORD  STRAIGHT      191 

east  and  west,  barbs  to  the  arrow,  Groo  and  Klee,  rivers  of 
the  barges,  curve  outwards  across  the  plain. 

"Nak  is  late — according  to  his  custom,"  grumbled  Akiou; 
and  he  gave  orders  to  pole  inshore.  And  there,  while  they 
waited,  he  told  them  how,  on  work-days — "but  none  work 
to-day  in  City  Bu-ro  for  the  Feast  of  the  Bow  is  at  hand"- 
the  Groo  swarms  with  the  full  barges  of  the  field-workers, 
making  their  way  to  the  Storehouses,  and  how  the  barges 
return,  man-towed  and  hah0  empty,  up  the  Klee,  carrying  such 
produce  as  the  Mandarins  give  back  to  the  common  people. 

"In  the  old  days,'5  said  the  Harinesian,  "each  man  did  his 
own  poling.  Now  Egg  the  Mandarin  has  all  that  in  his 
care.  Wherefore  it  often  happens  that  the  harvests  rot  ere 
they  reach  the  City." 

But  de  Gys  was  hardly  listening.  He  stood  by  the  swing- 
ing dragon-tiller,  eyes  fixed  on  that  yellow  stream,  which  cut 
its  path  straight  as  an  arrow-shaft  through  the  black  sun- 
shimmering  quays.  His  eyes  could  see  nothing  save  that 
interminable  yellow  shaft,  narrowing  and  narrowing  between 
interminable  black-stone,  sun-dazzle  beyond  and  the  bare 
plain  on  either  side:  but  his  mind,  yearning  beyond  sun- 
dazzle,  saw  Fame.  He  was  de  Gys,  Rene  de  Gys,  Com- 
mandant Rene  de  Gys — the  discoverer  of  Harinesia. 

"What  the  devil's  that?"  Dicky's  voice,  raised  in  stark 
astonishment,  interrupted  dreamery. 

Very  far  away  along  the  quays  appeared  a  speck  of  white 
— a  speck  that  grew  and  grew — took  elephantine  shape  as  it 
rushed  towards  them. 

"Nak,"  shouted  Akiou.  "Nak!    Nak!    Nak!" 

And  the  elephant — for  elephant  it  was,  a  great  bull  ele- 
phant, almost  snow-white  in  colour,  trunk  uplifted,  ears 
flapping,  harness  jingling  to  the  piston-gallop  of  its  enormous 
limbs — trumpeted  back  an  answer  which  nearly  flung  the 
yellow-coated  runner-boy  from  his  perch  among  the  moving 
neck-muscles. 

"My  aunt!"  ejaculated  the  Long'un.  "My  aunt  and 
Phineas  Barnum!" 

The  huge  beast  slowed  pace  suddenly;  ambled  up  to  the 


192  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

boat.  For  a  moment  its  ridiculous  eyes  took  stock  of  the 
strangers;  then  the  raised  trunk  dropped  between  upcurved 
tusks,  and  came  searching — snake-like — along  the  guard-rail. 

Akiou,  half  afraid  of  the  beast  and  half  angry  at  the  delay, 
slashed  at  the  pink  snout  with  his  bow.  The  trunk  whistled 
at  him;  withdrew  itself.  Nak  knelt,  as  was  his  custom. 

Runner-boys,  swarming  up  the  companion-way,  brought 
coupling  chains;  made  these  fast  to  rings  in  the  deck;  flung 
coupling-hooks  overside;  swarmed  down;  harnessed  up; 
swarmed  back  along  the  tautening  links  as  Nak  rose  to  his 
feet. 

"What  strength!"  marvelled  de  Gys.  For  now,  as  the 
cables  grew  rigid,  Nak  strained  at  his  breast  harness,  and  the 
huge  brass-sheathed  houseboat — a  hundred  and  thirty  feet 
from  dragon-head  to  dragon-head — moved  easily  from  the 
quay-side;  took  mid-stream;  gathered  way,  rippling  the 
yellow  water  to  a  ridge  of  white  above  the  forward  rudder. 

"Better  than  poling,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish. 

Long'un  made  no  comment.  Once  again,  when  Akiou 
struck  at  that  friendly  trunk,  the  Long'un — tender  as  a 
woman  for  dumb  animals — had  felt  his  fingers  itch  to  the 
sword-hilt.  "  Brutes !"  he  thought.  "  For  all  their  efficiency , 
brutes!" 

So  thinking,  he  caught  first  sight  of  Emperor's  Pyramid. 
It  appeared  without  warning,  a  huge  black  helmet  in  the 
yellow  channel  ahead.  Gradually  the  spike  of  the  helmet 
rose,  its  base  broadening  at  river-level.  Now  it  was  clear 
of  the  river;  now  flanking  it,  domed  cupolas  showed,  and  a 
line  of  walls  between  the  cupolas. 

Akiou  stooped  for  his  bow,  raised  it  in  salute,  began  to 
hum  the  blood-song.  His  men  clustered  forward.  The 
Long'un  could  hear  them  muttering  together.  "Bu-ro! 
Bu-ro  I  Vy  I  Hips  Vy  ssu  Bu-ro  1 " 

"What  do  they  say?"  asked  de  Gys. 

"Something  about  women."  It  had  been  a  low  whisper, 
but  Akiou's  stopped  song  warned  of  danger.  "  Be  careful.  I 
don't  want  him  to  guess  I  understand." 

Conches  thrummed  in  the  distance.     Silhouette  of  the 


BOW  SKELVI  AND  SWORD  STRAIGHT      193 

city  broadened  across  the  river.  More  cupolas  appeared, 
pylons  and  propylons:  battlements  showed  tooth-like  above 
the  walls.  And  suddenly,  on  either  bank,  they  could  see  the 
fringes  of  the  crowd.  Nak,  smelling  them,  trumpeted; 
quickened  to  a  trot.  .  .  . 

Before  Beamish  realized  it  they  were  among  people: 
between  two  lines  of  people.  One  of  the  lines  gave  way 
before  the  elephant,  bellying  outwards,  bellying  back  to  the 
river-bank  as  the  beast  passed.  But  the  other  line  stood 
firm.  Beamish  could  see  their  faces — yellow  faces.  Thou- 
sands, they  seemed — each  face  like  its  fellow — unwinking, 
impassive,  dumb.  How  the  faces  stared!  They  were  all 
men — nearly  naked — Egg's  men — workers  on  the  quays. 
The  wall  of  faces  ended  abruptly.  Nak  trotted  on. 

"To  your  places!"  barked  Akiou;  and  his  men  doubled  aft, 
extended  outwards,  lining  the  deck  with  a  fresco  of  uplifted 
bows. 

Now  they  saw  Great  Basin,  semi-circle  of  glittering  water 
dotted  here  and  there  with  the  silk-hung  barges  of  the 
conch-blowers;  and  beyond  Great  Basin,  Great  Quay,  which 
is  all  of  axe-hewn  black-stone,  six  bow-shots  long  from  mooring- 
platform  to  mooring-platform,  and  two  bow-shots  deep  from 
water-front  to  the  foot  of  Great  Steps. 

Flanking  Great  Quay  bulked  the  Storehouses  of  the 
Merchandise,  flat-roofed,  bronze-shuttered,  machicolated 
yellow  limestone  above  and  red-pillared  granite  below: 
beyond,  Great  Steps  rose  in  broad  terraces  to  the  vast  sloped 
face  of  Great  Pyramid  and  the  glaring  Propylons  of  Great 
Stadium  and  the  Barracks  of  the  bowmen,  black  battle- 
men  ted,  yellow  cupolaed  against  the  sheer  blue  of  mid-day. 

And  as  Nak,  trotting  tirelessly,  trunk  upcurled,  coupling- 
chains  taut  as  bow-strings,  swung  them  round  the  Basin, 
Beamish  realized  that  all  this  strange  city  was  alive  with 
gaily-dressed  men  and  women. 

All  along  Great  Quay,  at  the  high  moor  ing-platforms,  on 
the  flat  rooves  of  the  Storehouses,  half-way  up  Great  Steps, 
even  at  the  foot  of  Great  Pyramid  itself,  people  swarmed  like 
bees.  The  hum  of  them  came  loud  across  the  water;  loud 


194  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

and  louder;  louder  than  the  creak  of  the  chains  as  they  fought 
against  the  creaking  rudders;  louder  than  the  thud  of  Nak's 
feet;  louder  than  the  blare  of  the  conches. 

They  were  not  dumb  like  the  workers  on  the  quays,  these 
swarming  people,  not  naked  like  the  field-workers.  They 
shouted;  and  they  shone.  The  massed  colours  of  them 
carpeted  stark  black-stone  with  yellows  and  crimsons  and 
peacock-greens  and  lotus-blues,  with  blood  colours  and  rose 
colours.  Here  and  there,  like  jewels  in  the  carpet,  gleamed 
helmets.  Here  and  there,  the  sun-umbrella  of  some  Man- 
darin's satellite  upreared  its  gaudy  mushroom — Pa-sif's 
bedragoned  white,  or  Kun-mer's  scarlet,  or  the  sable  emblem 
of  Mun-nee.  And  as  their  brazen  boat  rushed  nearer,  the 
whole  carpet  heaved  up  in  jewels  and  flowers  to  welcome 

them. 

***** 

The  three  heard  Akiou  barking  orders,  saw  Nak's  runner- 
boy  dragging  at  the  great  ear-flaps,  saw  Nak  halt  in  full  trot, 
saw  the  coupling-chains  sag;  heard  their  own  runner-boys 
panting  behind  them,  heard  the  crash  of  links  to  stone.  Then 
they  were  gliding  slower  and  slower  towards  a  black  wall, 
high  as  the  deck,  and  lined  with  shouting  faces. 

Shouting  ceased.  Conch-blare  died  away  as  the  manned 
decks  touched  West  Mooring  Platform.  Runner-boys,  cables 
over  arms,  sprang  ashore;  and  the  line  of  faces  gave  back 
before  them,  forming  curious  semi-circle  from  dragon-tiller 
to  dragon-tiller. 

"Sacr6  Dieu"  whispered  the  Long'un  to  de  Gys,  "are  they 
all  girls?" 

There  were  hundreds  of  them,  kittenish,  slitty-eyed, 
butter-complexioned  creatures,  gorgeously  attired,  jewels 
gleaming  in  their  black  bobbed  hair,  on  their  square  fore- 
heads, at  close-set  ears,  jewels  dropping  in  long  chains  from 
bare  necks  to  slippered  feet.  And  every  one  of  those  girls — 
exactly,  it  seemed  to  the  Long'un,  as  though  they  had  been 
chorus  in  some  English  musical  comedy — pointed  upcurled 
finger-tips  at  the  three  white  men,  began  to  murmur  "Bloo 
Loy!"  "Bloo  Loy!"  "Bloo  Loy!" 


BOW  SKELVI  AND  SWORD  STRAIGHT       195 

"Courage  /"  smiled  back  de  Gys,  "they  won't  eat  you.'* 

The  semi-circle  of  girls — favoured  ones,  they  discovered 
later,  newest  wives  of  the  Mandarins — opened  out,  still 
moving  like  automata,  and  disclosed  a  black  empty  lane  which 
led  straight  between  two  lines  of  kilted  archers  to  the  foot  of 
Great  Steps.  Behind  the  archers,  pressing  on  them,  swarmed 
the  crowd;  and  at  lane's  end,  nearly  half  a  mile  away,  the 
Long'un  saw,  clustered  together  above  a  crimson-hung  dais, 
the  personal  sun-umbrellas  of  the  Mandarins. 

"Here,  I  go  first,"  said  Akiou  in  Kwan-hwa.  "Be  pleased 
to  follow."  He  took  his  bow  from  its  place  by  the  tiller; 
turned  to  his  men;  barked  orders.  Rigid  arms  dropped 
bows  to  the  trail.  Akiou  clanked  ashore. 

The  three  followed  single  file — de  Gys  pompous,  hand  at 
sword-hilt,  helmeted  head  high;  the  Long'un  blushing;  Bea- 
mish, white  with  excitement,  very  self-conscious  of  bare  feet 
and  flimsy  attire.  Behind  them,  two  by  two,  kilts  jingling, 
strode  the  company. 

So,  after  ten  minutes'  ordeal,  these  three — Royalist  French- 
man, International  Socialist,  and  Anglo-American  merchant- 
soldier — came  before  the  Mandarins  of  yellow-island- 
country. 


"I  have  brought  them,  as  it  was  commanded,  from  the 
Outer  Gates.  They  say  that  they  come  in  the  name  of  one 
well  known  to  your  Excellencies — one  who  has  departed  to 
confer  with  his  ancestors  among  the  mysteries  of  Ko-nan." 

Akiou  stood,  a  glittering  statue  of  silver,  below  the  dais. 
He  was  speaking  Harinesian;  and  Dicky  could  have  sworn 
that  one  of  the  faces  above  him — a  female  face,  beautiful 
with  the  beauty  of  sin — flickered  an  eyelash  as  though  in 
pleasure  at  the  last  words. 

Many  faces  looked  down  on  them  from  under  the  umbrellas 
that  topped  those  crimson  hangings:  Kun-mer's  face,  white- 
moustached,  expressionless,  saffron  skull-cap  low  over  un- 
winking eyes;  Pa-sif,  clean-shaven,  teeth  biting  on  lower  lip; 
Hob,  Kroo,  and  Mun-nee,  the  Scribes,  parchment-corn- 


196  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

plexioned,  brows  straight  and  black  as  ink-lines;  Veeb's  face, 
featureless,  patient  with  the  patience  of  supreme  egotism; 
O-rag  and  Ro-wi,  See-bom,  Ko,  La-nsbir,  and  Tor-nee; 
Shor's  whiskered  chin;  Bo-smei  and  Ram-sa;  a  dozen  others. 
But  the  Long'un  had  thought  neither  for  these  nor  for  the 
sea  of  undistinguished  yellow  countenances  which  surged  all 
round  the  plinth  of  their  dais — only  for  the  woman. 

"Transparent  Ones,  these  Bloo  Loy  say  that  they  come  in 
the  name  of  N'ging,"  went  on  Akiou's  voice. 

Again  pleasure  showed  in  the  flicker  of  those  eyelashes, 
in  the  half -smile  at  the  corners  of  that  red  mouth. 

"And  they  bring  silver,  cases  of  stamped  silver,  even  as 
N'ging  brought  you." 

What  eyes  they  were — jade-irised,  orange-pupiled.  Above, 
the  broad  brow — scarcely  yellow — arched  to  dark  masses  of 
jewel-bound  hair.  Below,  the  straight,  delicate  nostrils 
thrilled,  ever  so  slightly,  as  though  with  sensual  delight. 

"I  have  given  arms  to  these  two.  The  little  one  will  not 
accept  arms.  He,  I  think,  will  be  welcome  in  the  house  of 
Pa-sif." 

The  eyes  were  burning  into  Dicky's  brain.  Cruel,  orange- 
pupiled  eyes!  And  the  red  mouth,  too,  was  cruel — cruel  as 
a  cat's.  He  saw  the  eyes  turn  from  him;  was  aware  of  de 
Gys,  hand  still  at  sword  hilt,  posing  gigantic  by  his  side. 
The  eyes  sought  the  Frenchman's,  held  them. 

"But  these  other  two" — Akiou,  finding  words  with 
difficulty,  missed  the  by-play  between  de  Gys  and  the 
woman — "being  men  such  as  Kun-mer  loves,  I  crave  of  your 
Transparencies  for  my  Company  at  the  Feast  of  The  Bow." 

Akiou  ended;  and  Kun-mer,  blood-robed  under  the  sun- 
flashed  scarlet  umbrella  his  satellite  held  over  him,  rose  to 
reply.  He  spoke  to  the  company,  slitty  eyes  envisaging  now 
one,  now  another  of  the  bowmen,  with  that  oratorial  ease 
which  is  the  pride  of  politicians  and  the  ruin  of  Empires. 

"O  brave  defenders  of  the  Outer  Gate,  we,  the  Council  of 
the  Mandarins,  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  Harinesia,  bid 
you  welcome.  To  these  also,  who  came  in  the  name  of  that 
one  who  is  with  his  ancestors,  we  extend  welcome  and  the 


BOW  SKELVI  AND  SWORD  STRAIGHT      197 

friendship  of  the  Council.  Let  them  trade  with  us  freely. 
Your  Captain  asks  us  a  boon  for  them — the  boon  is 
granted.  .  .  ." 

Speech  quickened  under  the  white  moustaches,  so  that  the 
Long'un  could  hardly  follow. 

"No  boon  too  great  for  the  defenders  of  our  Gates.  .  .  . 
The  Feast  is  prepared.  .  .  .  Your  prowess.  .  .  . 
The  sword  and  the  bow.  .  .  ."  At  this  the  Long'un 
could  see  dissent  among  the  yellow  faces:  Pa-sif's  teeth  bit 
deeper  to  the  under-lip;  Shor  and  Ro-wi  whispered  together; 
but  La-nsbir  and  Bo-smei  grinned  as  men  well  pleased  with 
the  speech. 

"Aye!  The  sword  and  the  bow" — guttural  voice  slowed 
to  peroration.  "Let  the  one  be  sharp  and  the  other  strung. 
For  who  knows  what  day  the  enemy  may  fall  upon  us  and  the 
road  to  Quivering  Stone  run  red  with  the  blood  of  the  Bloo 
Loy." 

Not  for  a  moment  while  Kun-mer  spoke  had  the  woman's 
eyes  wavered  from  the  Frenchman's  face,  but  at  the  words 
"Bloo  Loy"  a  frown  marred  her  broad  forehead,  the  cruel, 
beautiful  lips  pursed  as  though  in  denial.  Then,  as  Kun- 
mer  resumed  his  seat,  the  frown  vanished;  and  for  the 
twinkling  of  a  second  she  smiled  languidly  on  the  bearded 
giant  whose  long  sword  glinted  like  fire  from  his  hand  in 
the  hot  sunlight  below  the  dais. 

"Cleopatra!"  thought  the  Long'un,  "Cleopatra  must  have 
looked  like  that."  But  de  Gys  could  only  stare,  bewitched, 
at  the  square-browed  face  and  the  cruel  mouth  and  the  jade- 
irised,  orange-pupiled  eyes,  and  the  pale  jewelled  fingers  that 
lifted  slowly  to  the  dark  jewel-lit  hair.  Were  they  making 
some  secret  sign  to  him,  those  eyes,  amorous  as  a  cat's,  those 
amorous,  jewel-glister^g  fingers? 


The  reception  was  finished.  One  by  one  the  Mandarins 
rose,  displaying  the  full  gorgeousness  of  their  attire;  filed 
away.  Last  of  all  went  the  woman,  languid  in  sun-golden 
robes  under  the  sun-golden  umbrella  a  female  satellite  held 


198  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

over  her;  going,  her  pale  neck  turned  ever  so  slightly,  and 
the  jewel-lit  flower  of  her  dark  head  beckoned  to  de  Gys. 

For  a  full  minute  Akiou  watched  the  line  of  variegated 
umbrellas  forging  through  the  crowd  towards  the  Pillar  of 
Mahl-tu,  the  mule-god  of  Harinesia,  which  stands — a  slim 
horn  of  red  limestone — at  the  southwest  corner  of  Great 
Quay.  Then  he  turned  to  his  men,  shouted  an  order. 

Slowly,  making  way  as  best  they  might  through  the  mur- 
muring throng,  the  Company  climbed  Great  Steps. 

Looking  back  every  now  and  then  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  the  Long'un  could  see  Great  Quay,  contracting  smaller 
and  smaller  below  him,  and  the  empty  deck  of  their  boat,  and 
the  red  sweeps  of  the  conch-blowers'  barges  moving  like 
centipedes'  legs  as  they  made  for  shore.  In  front  and  above 
bulked  the  black  hundred-foot  face  of  Great  Pyramid, 
sloping  away  more  and  more  acutely  with  every  step  they 
climbed,  till  at  last  the  point  vanished  from  vision,  and  the 
four  stood  panting  on  the  bare  platform  at  its  base. 

Here,  finally  free  from  the  crowd,  they  waited  in  cool 
shadow  for  the  company  to  join  them. 

"What  a  place!"  gasped  Beamish,  gazing  down  awestruck 
over  the  flat  rooves  of  the  Storehouses,  along  the  straight, 
black-edged  channel  of  the  main-stream,  to  where,  beyond 
Arrow  Quays,  Inner  Gate  showed  like  a  dark  hump  on  the 
dun  plain. 

"It  was  all  built  in  the  old  days,"  Akiou,  half  understand- 
ing, began  one  of  his  long  explanations,  "when  we  were  a 
great  nation.  Now  the  Mandarins  and  that  female  Man- 
darin. .  .  ." 

"What  is  the  name  of  the  female  Mandarin?"  De  Gys 
had  uttered  no  word  since  they  left  the  dais. 

"In  our  tongue,"  said  the  Harinesian,  "she  is  called  the 
Woman  Su-rah!" 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTEENTH 

In  which  both  Nak  the  Elephant  and  the  Woman  Su-rah 
display  signs  of  affection 

NAK — as  was  his  custom — ambled  sedately  up  the  old 
elephant-path  behind  the  Storehouses;  dropped  his 
runner-boy  and  his  harness  at  Second  Sally-port; 
sluiced  himself  from  Little  Tank,  which  is  at  the  foot  of 
Second  Cupola;  stood  for  a  moment  deep  in  thought;  and 
wandered  off,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  Barrack  Walls, 
towards  Great  Stadium. 

Reaching  the  propylons — enormous  truncated  pyramids 
of  yellow  limestone,  crenellated  gateway  between — he 
paused;  saw  that  the  bronze  gates  were  open;  ambled  through 
the  huge  square  shadow  of  the  arch;  frisked  across  Fighting- 
ground;  chose  his  couch  of  red  sand  carefully  as  a  dog;  swept 
it  flat  with  his  trunk;  and  subsided  mountainously  for  his 
sun-bath. 

Lying  there  in  the  sunshine,  the  white  elephant  might  have 
been  very  symbol  of  that  "benevolent  force"  which  the 
Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith  believed  vital  for 
world  government.  The  vast  domed  head  rested  easily 
between  immense  forelegs:  wrinkled  tent-flaps  of  the  ears 
were  laid  to  ground;  the  delicate  pink  tip  of  the  outstretched 
trunk,  thick  as  a  boa  constrictor  between  the  tusks,  whistled 
every  now  and  then,  like  an  Anglo-Saxon  in  mental  diffi- 
culties. White  hillock  of  back,  gigantic  croup,  and  prone  hind- 
quarters, as  though  conscious  of  strength,  disdained  all 
movement  save  the  occasional  flicker  of  fly-whisk  at 
tail- tip. 

Nak,  Last  of  the  Elephants,  was  as  old  as  Harinesia.  He 
could  remember,  vaguely,  his  birth  among  the  forests  by  the 

199 


200  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

sea-coast,  his  mother  standing  four-square  above  him  while 
the  bulls  fought  and  the  trees  crashed  around  them;  his 
mother's  wandering  off  to  die  alone;  his  own  fights  that  won 
him  kingship  of  the  herd.  He  could  remember,  quite  clearly, 
the  path  by  which  he  had  led  the  herd — drought-driven — to 
the  waters  of  the  Harin,  their  centuries  of  sugar-fed  servitude 
to  Them  of  the  Bow.  It  all  came  back  to  him  in  that  hour  of 
repose.  He  saw  again  the  building  of  Bu-ro,  the  sack  of 
Angkor  Wat,  the  battles  with  Ava  and  Ayuthia,  the  last 
defence  of  Carajan.  They  were  dead,  every  one  of  them, 
those  bulls  who  had  trumpeted  with  him  at  Angkor,  those 
cows  and  calves  he  had  led  back  from  Carajan!  Soon  his 
own  time  would  come  upon  him. 

The  elephant's  red  eyes,  sole  insignificant  features  in 
the  white  landscape  of  his  body,  blinked  about  Great  Sta- 
dium; visioning  long-dead  companies  wheel  and  break  across 
that  red-sanded  oblong  of  Fighting-ground,  long-dead  crowds 
cheering  from  the  yellow  limestone  benches  that  upslanted 
tier  on  tier  either  side  of  it  long-dead  Emperors  and  bow- 
men in  the  shadowed  balconies  of  the  propylons. 

Nak  had  seen  so  many  bowmen,  so  many  Emperors  he 
could  have  crushed  with  one  foot,  play  out  their  little  hour  in 
that  Stadium.  He  had  never  bothered  to  crush  them.  Yet 
they  were  dead — even  as  the  bulls  who  had  trumpeted  with 
him  at  Angkor.  Only  himself  and  the  Stadium  re- 
mained. 

Centuries  had  not  altered  the  Stadium.  The  point  of 
Great  Pyramid  still  stabbed,  like  the  tip  of  an  elephant-goad, 
the  square  of  sky  above  the  crenellated  gateway  between 
the  sloping  propylons.  Opposite  the  propylons,  and  three 
bow-shots  from  them,  directly  behind  Nak's  tail,  flat  black- 
stone  still  roofed  the  columned  darkness  of  Elephant- 
stables.  Above  these  rose  the  long  saffron  rock  of  Su-rah's 
yamen,  recessed  with  dark  gazeboes  through  which  Su-rah 
and  her  satellites  would  watch  the  Feast  of  the  Bow. 

No!  Centuries  had  not  changed  the  Stadium,  nor  the 
customs  of  the  Stadium.  And  centuries — Nak  knew — had 
not  changed  Them  of  the  Bow.  They  were  still  cruel. 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH          201 

They  still  slashed  at  one's  trunk.    Yet  he  had  never  bothered 
to  crush  one  of  them.     Why? 

Foolish! — thought  Nak — foolish.  I,  who  fear  nothing 
save  Pittising's  claws  on  my  trunk,  to  tolerate  these  apes ! 
But  I  grow  old.  Soon  my  time  will  come  upon  me. 
When  my  time  comes  I  think  I  will  go  away  from  this  city 
— back  to  those  forests  by  the  sea  where  I  fought  my  first 
fights  for  kingship  of  the  herd.  It  is  an  easy  path,  and  all 
the  way  from  Quivering  Stone  to  the  sea  one  finds  food — 
good  food — sugar-cane.  .  .  . 


"Poor  old  Jumbo — he's  fed  up  with  life."  Long'un, 
leaning  on  Skelvi,  looked  down  at  the  vast  domed  head. 

Akiou,  following  the  ancient  ritual  of  Harinesia,  had 
marched  his  company  to  Great  Stadium,  was  dismissing 
them.  De  Gys,  still  unusually  silent,  and  Beamish,  open- 
mouthed  in  astonishment  at  this  vast  yellow-benched  arena, 
stood  gazing  up  at  the  bestial  sculptures  of  the  propylons. 

"Poor  old  Jumbo!"  repeated  the  Long'un.  "Jumbo. 
Hi,  you  Jumbo."  Then,  remembering  the  beast's  name. 
"Nak!  Poor  old  Nak." 

The  mountain  awoke,  flapped  one  wrinkled  ear  on  the 
hot  sand,  opened  an  eye,  and  saw — to  its  intense  surprise — 
that  the  face  which  gazed  down  from  under  the  Harinesian 
helmet  was  of  its  own  colour,  white.  The  Long'un  went  on 
talking — as  only  English-speaking  men  talk  to  their  animals. 

"Nak.  Nak,  you  silly  old  devil.  Wake  up,  will  you? 
Nak,  good  old  Nak." 

He  began  to  pull,  jocularly,  at  the  tent-flaps  of  the  beast's 
ears;  slapped  its  rough  forehead  with  his  flat  hand. 

"Fed  up,  aren't  you,  old  blighter.  So  am  I.  That  damn 
Frenchman's  gone  dotty  over  Cleopatra."  More  slaps: 
Nak  opened  both  eyes;  his  trunk  wriggled  pleasurably. 
"And  she'll  do  him  in,  old  boy.  Sure  as  God  made  little 
apples,  she'll  do  the  lot  of  us  in.  You  keep  clear  of  the 
women,  Nak  old  son.  Keep  clear  of  'em.  Specially  yellow 
women." 


202  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Followed  further  slappings  and  ear-pullings.  Akiou 
shouted  something  which  sounded  like  "geff."  The 
Long'un  went  on  with  his  monologue.  Nak  started  to  rise. 

Nak  rose  very  deliberately,  forequarters  first;  and  his  eyes, 
as  they  ascended,  seemed  to  look  straight  into  the  Long'un 's. 
Akiou,  again  shouting,  ran  towards  them.  .  . 

And  then  the  thing  incredible  happened.  The  Harines- 
ian,  still  fifty  yards  away,  saw  Nak  erect  himself  to  full 
height,  saw  his  trunk  feeling  for  the  Bloo  Loy's  legs,  saw 
trunk  and  armed  man  and  Bow  Skelvi  ascending  slowly 
from  the  ground. 

"My  aunt!"  thought  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton 
Smith.  He  was  clinging,  as  best  he  could  with  his  free  hand, 
to  the  great  arm  of  white  skin  round  his  loins — he  was  sitting 
on  the  arm — he  felt  the  arm  hoist  him  up — up  and  up — he 
saw  Nak's  red  eyes  inspecting  him — saw  the  eyes  fall  away, 
the  dome  of  the  forehead  appear — recognized  the  tiny  vul- 
nerable patch  of  soft  bone  in  the  forehead — felt  himself  turn- 
ing— felt  himself  deposited,  slowly  and  with  great  care,  on 
the  neck-muscles. 

"Well,  I'm  damned,"  said  the  Honourable  Richard  Asshe- 
ton Smith.  Akiou's  face,  seen  over  Nak's  ear,  was  nearly 
white  with  terror.  The  rigid  line  of  bowmen  had  lost  all 
semblance  of  discipline. 

Nak,  feeling  mailed  legs  firm  behind  his  ears,  began  to 
cross  the  Fighting  Ground. 

"It  is  a  miracle" — Akiou 's  voice  ascended  hoarse  with 
wonder — "it  is  a  miracle.  Thus  in  my  father's  father's 
time  he  carried  the  conqueror.  He  goes  to  the  place  of  the 
Emperor.  See,  Nak  goes  to  the  Emperor.  It  is  a  miracle." 

The  Long'un  felt  himself  carried,  very  slowly,  towards  the 
gateway;  felt  Nak  hesitate,  incline  to  the  left.  The  bow- 
men opened  out.  De  Gys,  a  foreshortened  figure  under  a 
round  helmet,  sprang  clear  just  in  time.  Nak  stopped; 
and  his  rider,  peering  up  at  the  sculptured  slant  of  the 
propylon,  saw  a  jutting  balcony  just  above  his  head. 

What  the  devil  did  the  beast  want?  "  Lie  down,  will  you?  " 
shouted  the  Long'un.  "Lie  down,  old  boy.  Down,  I  say." 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH          203 

But  Nak,  unaccustomed  to  dog-language,  took  no  notice. 
As  had  been  his  custom  in  the  old  days,  he  lifted  his  trunk  to 
Emperor's  balcony;  and  very  deliberately  went  through  the 
Royal  Salute. 

Seven  separate  times,  impotent  and  amazed,  Nak's  rider 
watched  that  white  trunk  curl  back  over  his  head;  curl  for- 
ward again,  like  a  flung  rope,  towards  the  balcony.  Seven 
separate  times  he  felt  the  neck-muscles  heave  under  his 
knees.  Till,  suddenly,  the  trunk  reared  straight  up,  stood 
like  a  mast  before  his  eyes;  and  noise,  noise  as  of  steam-sirens 
blown  by  maniacs,  noise  inhuman,  noise  that  shattered  the 
ear-drums,  nearly  wrenched  him  from  his  seat  between  the 
neck-muscles. 


Slowly  Nak's  forequarters  subsided;  and  the  Long'un,  still 
deaf  from  the  trumpeting,  came  to  ground. 

"You  ride  well,  my  friend" — de  Gys,  bellowing  almost  as 
loud  as  Nak  himself,  was  first  to  offer  a  hand — "by  the 
seven  sales  Boches  I  slew  at  Douamont,  you  ride  bigrement 
well.  A  very  jockey." 

The  elephant,  carefully  inspecting  de  Gys,  rose,  offered  a 
trunk  to  be  patted,  turned  ponderously  as  a  battleship,  and 
headed  for  his  stables.  Akiou,  rather  ashamed  of  himself — • 
for,  by  order  of  the  Mandarins,  one  does  not  mention  the 
Emperor  in  City  Bu-ro — called  his  company  to  attention; 
dismissed  them. 

The  men,  kilts  clinking,  made  off  through  the  gateway,  and 
their  leader  joined  his  guests  with  a  curt,  "Come.  Let  us 
doff  our  weapons  and  eat." 

He  led  way  out  of  the  Stadium,  across  glaring  sunlight, 
towards  the  black  battlemented  Barrack  Walls;  stooped 
under  the  low  arch  of  First  Sally-port. 

Following,  the  three  found  themselves  in  a  bewildering 
labyrinth  of  obscenely  sculptured  corridors;  traversed  these; 
and  emerged  into  a  deep  well  of  courtyard,  black-stone 
sided,  sand-floored,  roofed  by  an  octagonal  patch  of  blue 
sky. 


204  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Nice  and  cool,  anyway,"  said  the  Long'un,  taking  off  his 
helmet. 

Akiou  led  on,  through  more  corridors,  into  a  second  court- 
yard. 

"Your  quarters,"  he  announced,  pointing  to  a  triangular 
arch  undercut  from  the  solid  wall.  Through  this  they  came 
to  a  high  cavern,  lamp-lit,  divided  into  three  cubicles  by 
fretted  screens  of  carven  stone.  Rushes  strewed  the  floors; 
and  in  each  cubicle  stood  a  curious  marble  bedstead,  mat- 
tressed  with  strips  of  deer-hide,  a  low  table  for  the  lamp, 
weapon-racks,  and  a  pile  of  cured  skins.  Here,  telling  de 
Gys  to  await  him,  Akiou  left  them. 

Phu-nan,  already  busy  in  the  third  cubicle,  salaamed  at 
his  master's  entrance: 

"A  great  city,  great  one." 

"Aye."  The  Frenchman  inspected  the  bedstead;  doffed 
helmet;  unbuckled  sword;  and  sank  heavily  on  to  the  pile  of 
skins.  The  Moi,  stooping,  busied  himself  with  greaves  and 
sollerets. 

"  Charming  people,  the  Harinesians,"  called  the  Long'un 's 
voice,  "but  they  don't  seem  over  keen  on  washing."  He 
entered,  weaponless,  legs  and  head  bare.  Beamish,  looking 
like  a  runner-boy,  followed. 

"Well,  rider  of  elephants"— De  Gys  kicked  off  his  sol- 
lerets— "nous  void  /" 

"Yes,  my  friend,  we  are  here — and  in  a  charming  situa- 
tion." Dicky  gave  a  rough  precis  of  Kun-mer's  speech. 
"We're  conscripts,  mon  vieux,  and  if  I  follow  the  scheme  of 
this  Bow  Feast,  gladiators." 

"Gladiators!"  The  Frenchman  laughed.  "Excellent." 
He  looked  lovingly  at  the  scabbardless  blade  by  his  side. 

"But  I  thought  we  came  to  buy  opium?"  put  hi  Beamish. 

"We  did."  The  Long'un  fidgeted  with  his  breast-plate 
buckles.  "The  specie-boxes  are  in  my  room.  And  we  also 
came" — he  paused,  meaningly — "for  other  purposes.  Have 
you  still  no  plans,  de  Gys?" 

"Yes.  Now  I  have  a  plan.  An  excellent  plan!"  The 
Frenchman  mouthed  a  few  syllables  which  sounded  like  the 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH          205 

whine  of  a  cat.  "It  is  a  pity  you  do  not  speak  Siamese, 
mon  Colonel.  They  have  a  good  proverb,  'One  must  use  a 
thorn  to  extract  a  thorn.'  Do  you  follow  me?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"And  yet,  it  is  easy:  easier  than  your  scheme  for  cutting 
one's  way  to  Quivering  Stone.  Observe!"  He  held  up  a 
thin  square  of  palmetto-leaf.  "One  finds  this  on  one's  bed. 
There  are  ideographs  on  it.  One  reads  them  thus:  'A 
woman — a  messenger — have  no  fear^-follow.'  The  ladies 
of  City  Bu-ro  are  not,  it  appears,  slow  in  declaring  their 
wishes." 

Ensued  silence,  during  which  de  Gys — rather  fatuously 
as  it  seemed  to  the  Long'un — caressed  his  beard;  and  Beam- 
ish, with  his  usual  curiosity,  examined  the  palmetto-leaf. 
Then  the  Long'un  spoke : 

"She  murdered  Negrini,  de  Gys." 

"A  little  caprice,  friend.  To  a  beautiful  woman  one 
forgives  her  playfulnesses.  Moreover,  of  that  crime  at 
least,  she  stands  acquitted  .  .  .  since  we  three  have 
confessed  to  it." 

"You  will  go  to  her  then?" 

"Go?  Naturally  I  shall  go.  We  do  not  need  to  be  monks 
because  we  live  in  cells.  .  .  ." 

Akiou,  entering  unannounced,  interrupted  their  conver- 
sation; led  them  back  across  the  courtyard,  through  more 
sculptured  [labyrinths  (the  Barracks  of  the  Bowmen  were 
built  in  old  days  before  the  Mandarins  decreed  standardiza- 
tion in  Harinesia)  to  Banqueting  Place — a  vast  circular 
hall;  black-walled;  bronze-galleried;  floored  with  red  marble, 
to  which,  at  mid-day  the  twelve  gazeboes  of  Second  Cupola 
fling  down  twelve  golden  searchlights  of  sunshine. 

Already  six  hundred  men  were  reclining,  Roman-fashion, 
on  piles  of  skins  at  the  low  tables;  already  runner-boys  had 
pushed  their  way  through  the  hide  curtains  of  the  kitchen- 
passages,  were  busy  serving. 

A  hum  of  astonishment  greeted  the  newcomers;  died  down 
as  Akiou  led  to  a  circular  table  on  a  raised  dais  in  the  centre  of 
the  floor. 


£06  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Here — naked  except  for  their  kilts;  breast-harnesses 
piled  on  the  red  marble  beside  their  couches — lay  the  officers : 
Senn-na,  Captain  of  the  Guard  at  Quivering  Stone,  a  fat, 
dark-complexioned  yellow  man,  kilt-buckle  loosened  for  the 
Feast;  Mi-kwi,  Captain  of  the  Islands,  straight  and  thin  as  an 
arrow,  the  scar  of  a  cat-mauling  on  his  left  cheek;  Buk, 
Captain  of  the  Fieldworker-guards,  black  moustache  up- 
brushed  to  slitty  eyes;  and  Ath,  Captain  of  Bu-ro,  a  flabby 
man,  cheeks  loose  with  over-long  good  living. 

Being  half-way  through  the  second  course — boar's  chit- 
terlings friend  in  fat — they  did  not  rise.  Akiou,  who  alone 
spoke  Kwan-hwa,  introduced  the  three  foreigners  by  signs, 
indicated  couches  for  them;  took  off  his  breast-harness;  laid 
down. 

"You  bring  BlooLoy,"  grumbled  Ath,  raising  himself  on  one 
elbow  to  gobble  the  chitterlings.  "How  shall  we  compete 
with  these  at  the  shooting?  The  yellow-haired  one,  I  saw, 
carried  a  bow  longer  by  three  spans  than  any  of  ours." 

"Ath  grumbles  always."  Mi-kwi  put  the  dish  from  his 
mouth,  lay  flat  to  await  the  third  course.  "How  went  it  at 
the  Outer  Gate?" 

"As  usual." 

"Keo  and  his  company  will  be  in  by  sundown." 

"Aye."     Akiou  devoted  himself  noisily  to  his  food.    .    .    . 

It  seemed  to  Dicky  that  the  meal  lasted  for  hours.  Ob- 
viously, the  simple  regime  of  guard  duty  did  not  hold  good 
in  City  Bu-ro.  Pla  Boeuk  caviare,  secretly  caravanned 
from  Luang-prabang,  followed  the  chitterlings;  then  came 
eggs  cooked  in  mangosten  shells,  an  oily  fish,  curried  pea- 
cock's leg,  venison  with  boar  bacon,  a  joint  which  de  Gys 
disgustedly  pronounced  to  be  pittising,  a  baron  of  slidang 
(buffalo),  more  rice. 

"It's  not  a  meal,"  mused  Dicky,  as  the  sun-searchlights 
of  the  gazeboes  dwindled  from  twelve  to  five,  began  crawling 
up  the  walls,  "it's  an  orgie."  He  looked  amusedly  at 
Beamish,  whose  vegetarian  principles  had  once  more  suc- 
cumbed to  free  meat. 

So  far  there  had  been  nothing  save  the  usual  Puerh  to 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH  207 

drink,  but  with  the  removal  of  the  rice-chopsticks  (the  other 
dishes,  according  to  Harinesian  custom,  were  eaten  without 
utensils)  runner-boys  brought  little  metal  cups  and  a  vast 
jar  of  hot  liquid. 

"Sam-shu,  (rice  wine),"  said  de  Gys;  and  tossed  off  his 
cup. 

"Aye" — Akiou,  kilt-buckle  undone,  sprawled  unpleasantly 
close — "the  old  sam-shu.  Your  health,  Bearer  of  Sword 
Straight!  May  you  have  many  children." 

"Nice,"  decided  Beamish,  abandoning  Prohibition,  "very 
nice  indeed." 

"Not  bad,"  drawled  the  Long'un,  "a  bit  sweet  though." 

Ath  toasted  them.  They  toasted  him  back.  Mi-kwi, 
lifting  two  cups,  began  a  guttural  speech.  Buk  interrupted 
him.  He  passed  the  two  cups  across  the  table.  The 
Englishmen  drank  again.  Sen-na  repeated  the  ceremony. 

"They're  trying  to  make  you  drunk,"  whispered  de  Gys. 
"Be  careful.  This  sam-shu  works  quickly." 

"Could  drink  fifty  of  these  yellow  boys  under  the  table," 
laughed  the  Long'un,  "come  along,  doc.  Drink  to  your 
Oriental  brothers."  He  swept  up  four  of  the  tiny  cups;  had 
them  filled.  .  .  .  The  game  went  on. 

Now  talk  flowed  quickly  as  the  warm,  milky  liquid  which 
inspired  it.  Akiou  told  the  story  of  Nak's  salute.  Chins  on 
right  hand,  left  arms  raised,  they  drank  to  Nak.  Ath,  eyes 
gleaming,  made  a  suggestion  so  infamous  that  the  Long'un — 
still  keeping  secret  his  knowledge  of  Harinesian — felt  the 
restrained  blush  positively  choke  him.  They  drank,  inno- 
cent Beamish  included,  to  Ath's  suggestion. 

"Send  the  men  away,"  growled  Sen-na.  Akiou,  soberest 
of  the  captains,  sat  up  on  his  couch. 

"You  can  go,"  barked  Akiou.  "You  can  go  into  the 
city." 

Six  hundred  yellow  faces  rose  from  their  couches,  six  hun- 
dred yellow  arms  rose  in  a  ring  of  salutes.  The  men  rushed 
jingling  for  the  curtains;  disappeared.  At  the  dais,  orgie 
continued. 

"Fine  fellows,"  hiccuped  Beamish,  "fine  jolly  fellows." 


208  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"77  est  sou,"  whispered  de  Gys.     "What  does  he  say?" 

"He  says  that  he  adores  the  Harinesians."  The  Long'un, 
still  entirely  sober,  tossed  off  his  twenty-fifth  thimbleful  of 
sam-shu,  lay  back  on  his  couch.  The  yellow  men  had  for- 
gotten their  guests.  They  gossiped  together,  barking  every 
now  and  then  over  bare  shoulders  for  more  wine. 

"Savages!"  whispered  de  Gys,  "look  at  their  faces." 

It  was  not  a  pretty  sight!  Sen-na  and  Akiou,  couched 
head  to  head,  had  begun  a  squabble.  Buk  and  Mi-kwi, 
cups  in  hand,  were  humming  the  blood-song.  Ath's  bulk 
heaved  somnolently,  his  bare  feet  runkling  the  wine-stained 
skins  between  Mi-kwi 's  legs  and  the  fatuous  eyes  of  the 
Socialist. 

"Fine  jolly  fellows,"  repeated  Beamish.  "Fine  jolly 
fellows."  He  started  to  sing.  "The  red,  red  flag,"  sang 
Cyprian  Beamish. 

"Shut  up,  you  ass."  The  Long'un  removed  his  friend's 
cup. 

"Shan't  shut  up."  The  doctor  rose  unsteadily  to  his 
elbow.  His  dull  eyes  sparkled  with  maudlin  friendship. 
"You  don't  understand  me,  Long'un.  You  never  have 
understood  me.  You  think,  because  I'm  a  Socialist,  can't  be 
a  good  fellow." 

"Oh,  you're  all  right,  doc." 

"  Course  I'm  all  right.  All  Socialists  all  right.  Socialists  "— 
the  elbow  tottered — "  Socialists  all  all  right.  Believe  in  good 
fellowship — race-fellowship.  That's  why  I  say" — very  seri- 
ously— "Harinesians  jolly  good  fellows." 

"The  sunset  is  red  with  the  blood  of  the  gods"  hummed 
Mi-kwi. 

Beamish,  muttering  something  which  sounded  like  "Merrie 
Harinesia,"  subsided  against  Ath's  legs;  recovered  himself.  A 
wave  of  animation  passed  over  his  face ;  he  seemed  to  sober. 

"You  don't  understand  this  country,  Long'un.  You're 
not  sympathetic  to  these  people.  You're  prejudiced.  That's 
it — prejudiced.  .  .  ." 

But  Dicky  had  left  off  listening  to  Beamish. 

"Tu  vois?"  whispered  de  Gys. 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH  209 

"Yes.    I    see." 

Over  the  scowling  heads  of  Buk  and  Mi-kwi  one  of  the 
runner-boys  was  making  signs.  He  lifted  a  yellow  finger  to 
moist  lips;  began  to  edge,  very  slowly,  round  the  semi-circle 
of  recumbent  drinkers.  He  passed  behind  Ath,  behind 
Beamish.  .  .  . 

"Ko" — the  boy  was  leaning  over  them,  pretending  to  fill 
their  cups.  "Ko  znee  moog.  Vy  /"  he  whispered.  One 
finger  touched  de  Gys'  forearm. 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"He  says" — the  Long'un's  moustache  brushed  his  friend's 
ear — "that  you  are  to  come  quickly.  As  quickly  as  you  can. 
That  there  is  a  woman."  Then,  virulently:  "Don't  risk 
it,  mon  vieux.  Remember  Negrini." 

"Pah!" — the  beard  hairs  quivered  in  the  rush  of  de  Gys' 
breath — "there  is  no  risk.  I  could  kill  her  with  one  hand. 
A  thorn  to  extract  a  thorn,  Colonel." 

"  I  beg  of  you,  mon  ami.     .     .     ." 

".Ko,"  whispered  the  runner-boy.  "Koznee.  Vy !  Vy 
Su-rah" 

The  Frenchman's  red-brown  eyes  glinted  round  the 
couched  circle.  Beamish  drowsed;  Buk  and  Mi-kwi  had 
ceased  humming;  Ath,  Akiou,  and  Sen-na  were  arguing,  cups 
in  hand,  across  the  littered  table. 

It  grew  dark  in  Banqueting  Place:  the  searchlights  of  the 
gazeboes  had  shrunk  into  Cupola-dome,  they  showed  like 
twelve  eyes  of  dulled  sapphire,  high  above  the  bronze  galleries. 

"Ko  ! "  Again  the  anxious  finger  touched  de  Gys'  forearm. 
"Nit  geff.  Vy — hips  vy.  Vy  Su-rah" 

"Don't,  mon  vieux.     Don't!" 

But  the  Long'un  spoke  in  vain.  Bearded  face  and  hairy 
forearm  slid  away  as  the  Frenchman's  legs  worked  him  off  the 
couch;  his  bare  feet  touched  ground;  one  hand  groped  for  his 
harness. 

"Au  revoir,  mon  ami." 

Dicky — thoroughly  alarmed — watched  the  pair  of  them 
slink  off  through  the  circle  of  empty  tables  below;  saw  the 
runner-boy  swing  back  one  of  the  hide  curtains.  De  Gys' 


210  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

kilted  torso  straightened  up,  vanished.    Dropped  curtain 
swayed;  was  still     .     .     . 


"We're  in  for  trouble  now,"  mused  the  Long'un. 

He  gulped  another  thimbleful  of  wine;  poised  chin  on  hand. 
But  the  Harinesians,  if  they  observed  de  Gys'  absence,  took 
no  notice  of  it.  Buk  and  Mi-kwi  had  joined  in  their  com- 
rades' argument.  Beamish  watched  them,  silent  and  fatu- 
ous. 

"Veeb  lies  as  usual" — Buk,  Captain  of  the  Fieldworkers, 
spoke — "Tor-nee  also.  The  man  Ha-co  must  die  at  the 
feast.  It  is  Bo-smei's  order." 

"Pa-sif  protects  him."     Ath  fingered  his  drinking  cup. 

"Aye,  you  and  your  Pa-sif.     We  of  Quivering  Stone  "- 
Sen-na  scowled — "have  no  use  for  Pa-sif.     Kun-mer  speaks 
truth.     The  sword  and  the  bow!" 

"I  also" — with  a  wave  of  his  hand  Akiou  dismissed  the 
runner-boys — "am  for  Kun-mer."  He  looked  sideways  at 
the  Long'un,  but  the  Long'un  appeared  to  be  dropping 
asleep.  "Kun-mer  would  give  the  order  to-morrow — were  it 
not  that  he  fears  Su-rah." 

"The  woman  of  the  Bloo  Loy,"  put  in  Sen-na,  and  now 
Long'un's  lids  closed,  a  snore  came  from  him,  "must  be 
very  beautiful.  Thou  rememberest  that  one  whom  I  found 
with  her  mate  in  Pittising's  country." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  fight  against  the  Bloo  Loy  if  their  men 
be  like  this  sleeper  here." 

"The  voice  is  the  voice  of  Ath,  but  the  tongue  is  the 
tongue  of  Su-rah,"  grunted  Mi-kwi.  "I  also  am  for  Kun- 
mer.  Are  there  guards  below  Quivering  Stone,  Sen-na?" 

"There  are  no  guards." 

Argument  continued.  Through  closed  eyelids  the  Long'un 
was  aware  that  light  faded,  that  someone  brought  table- 
lamps.  Voices  rose  louder,  less  distinct.  The  five  were 
quarrelling,  bandying  names  across  the  table.  "Shor 

says "Ram-sa  says —  "Thou  knowest  Shor,  a 

feather  in  the  wind:  a  windy  belly."     "Ram-sa's  line  is 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH 

traitor     to     the     tenth     generation."       "Mun-nee ' 

"Mu-nee's  grandsire  was  of  Angkor — —  "Thou 
Rest —  Then,  Ath's  voice  again,  "Shall  we  risk  our 

good  lives  for  the  Mandarins?"  "There  is  no  danger — and 
the  Mandarins  will  give  share  of  the  women."  "Thou'rt 
sure?"  "Aye.  Kun-mer  himself  made  promise  to  Keo, 
when  he  made  inspection  of  Inner  Gate." 

The  Long'un,  still  feigning  sleep,  felt  every  nerve  in  his 
brain  a-tingle.  Much  of  the  argument  was  unintelligible 
to  him;  but  the  drift  of  it — in  the  light  of  Negrini's  revela- 
tions— was  easy  enough  to  follow.  And  suddenly,  through 
closed  eyelids,  the  Long'un  seemed  to  see  Melie — the 
golden  casque  of  her  hair,  the  pale  glory  of  face  below.  These 
swine,  these  yellow  swine,  were  plotting  against  Melie. 
Kun-mer  had  but  to  give  the  order,  and  they  would  go  down, 
"bows  drawn,  against  the  Flower  Folk!" 

"  God, "  he  thought,  "  Dear  God ! "     .     .     . 

"Wake  up,  oF  man.  Wake  up."  Beamish,  tired  of 
watching,  kicked  the  Long'un's  naked  shoulder.  The 
Long'un  pretended  to  awake.  Among  the  Harinesians 
argument  ceased.  They  slithered  from  their  couches;  stood 
up  awkwardly,  snapping-to  their  kilt-buckles.  The  twelve 
gazeboes  had  gone  black  above  the  bronze  galleries.  Cupola- 
dome  was  a  vault  of  darkness;  Banqueting  Place  a  well  of 
gloom,  floored  as  with  phosphorescent  water  by  the  low 
blue  of  the  table-lamps. 

Runner-boys  came,  adjusted  harness.  Ath  and  Buk 
jingled  off  together.  Sen-na  and  Mi-kwi  followed.  Akiou 
made  signs:  "Were  they  sleepy?"  The  Long'un  signified 
assent;  took  Beamish's  arm,  led  him  to  their  quarters. 


But  Beamish  refused  to  go  to  sleep.  Why  should  he  go  to 
sleep?  The  Long'un  was  "jolly  good  fellow" — but  the 
Long'un  didn't  understand  Socialism.  The  Long'un  ought 
to  understand  Socialism.  If  the  Long'un  understood  Social- 
ism, he  would  understand  Harinesia. 

"Shut  up!"  said  Dicky.     He  picked  an  armful  of  skins 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

from  the  pile,  started  to  arrange  them  across  the  deer-hide 
strip-mattress  of  the  bedstead. 

"  Shan't  shut  up ! "  Beamish,  clinging  to  the  weapon-rack, 
smiled  inanely  at  the  table-lamp.  "No  intentions  of  shut- 
ting-up.  .  .  .  Spread  the  light.  .  .  .  Thash  my 
idea.  .  .  .  Spread  the  light  of  Soshalism.  .  .  .  Told 
you,  in  there,  with  Harinesians — jolly  goo*  fellows — you 
didn't  understand  this  country.  Prejudiced.  .  .  .  Not 
shympathetic  ....  No  capitalist  shympathetic 
nashional  ownership  nashional  wealth." 

"  Will  you  go  to  bed,  doc  ?  You're  tight.  Do  you  under- 
stand? Tight  as  a  drum."  The  Long'un,  bed-making 
finished,  wound  an  arm  round  Beamish 's  waist;  disentangled 
him  from  the  weapon-rack. 

"Bed,"  announced  Beamish,  "was  made  for  capitalists." 
Nevertheless,  he  climbed  up;  and  the  Long'un  pulled  a  skin 
over  him. 

"What  I  shay" — the  words  came  indistinctly  through 
slack  lips — "what  I  shay  is  thish.  Harineshians  all  jolly 
fellows.  Harineshians  all  Soshalists.  .  .  ." 

"Quite  so,  old  chap.  Quite  so.  Now  you  lie  down 
quietly.  You'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"Alri*  in  morning."  Dull  eyes  blinked  at  the  table- 
lamp.  "Yesh.  Alri'  in  morning,  if  only  make  you  under- 
stand these  people.  You  won't  understand.  Brutal  capital- 
ist." Muddled  brain  made  its  supreme  effort.  "You 
musht  undershtand.  These  people,  Harineshians,  jolly 
fellows,  all  Soshialists,  goo'  Soshialists.  Believe  in  Nashion- 
alization  of  everything,  believe  in  conscription  of  labour. 
Conscription  of  labour  neshessary  for  Nashionalization — 
Lanshbery  says  so — musht  be  right.  Harineshians  orderly 
people.  Soshialism  esshenshially  orderly  proshess.  Thash 
why  fieldworkers  all  live  jolly  little  houshes,  thash  why 
sholdiers  shuperintend  fieldworkers.  Musht  have  polish- 
force  orderly  Shtate — sholdiers  act  as  polish-force.  Thash 
why  Mandarins  shuperior  to  sholdiers.  Mandarins  brain- 
workers."  A  snore  interrupted  the  monologue.  "Brain- 
workers  neshessary,  fieldworkers  neshessary,  polish-force 


NAK  AND  THE  WOMAN  SU-RAH  213 

neshessary,  capitalist  unneshessary.  Thash  what  I  shay  .  .  . 
Jolly  mandarins  .  .  .  Jolly  HF  houshes  .  .  .  Jolly  little 
Shtate  .  .  .  Merrie  Harineshia." 

And  the  mind  of  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  having 
proved  to  its  complete  satisfaction  that  all  was  well  in 
yellow-island-country,  relapsed  into  the  sam-shu'd  warmth 
of  dreams. 


"Poor  old  doc,"  mused  the  Long'un  as  he  blew  out  the 
table-lamp,  crept  to  his  own  cubicle,  began  to  doff  his  harness. 
"Poor  old  soft-minded,  chuckle-headed,  decent-hearted  doc. 
Apparently  he  thinks  he's  in  that  ideal  State  of  his  at  last. 
Hope  he'll  sleep  it  off  by  the  morning." 

The  Long'un  drew  on  a  pair  of  loose  yellow  silk  trousers, 
sat  down  to  wait  for  the  Frenchman 

But  though  Long'un  waited  and  waited — till  the  eyes  in 
his  head  could  hardly  see  the  table-lamp — till  the  table-lamp 
went  out — till  the  first  hint  of  dawn  glimmered  through  the 
darkness  of  their  cubicles — Rene  de  Gys  did  not  come  home! 


CHAPTER  THE  EIGHTEENTH 

Of  love  and  trading  in  the  yamen  of  Su-rah 

RENE  DE  GYS,  still  grasping  his  harness,  heard  the 
hide  curtain  flap-to  behind  his  back,  felt  the  runner- 
boy's  hand  on  his  arm.    They  were  in  utter  darkness 
— a  passage  of  some  kind.     Light  glimmered,   a  growing 
triangle,    ahead.    Reaching    the    light,    he   found    himself 
in  the  courtyard  of  their  quarters.     The  boy  made  signs, 
buckling  an  imaginary  belt  round  his  waist,  fixing  a  helmet. 
The  Frenchman  understood;  ran  off  to  accoutre. 

Phu-nan,  roused  from  the  bedstead,  took  some  minutes  to 
obey  his  master's  orders;  so  that  by  the  time  de  Gys  came  out, 
helmet  on  head,  Sword  Straight  at  his  side,  it  was  already 
twilight. 

"Ko,"  grinned  the  boy.     "Ko  sznee." 

They  plunged  into  the  labyrinth  of  corridors,  made  First 
Sally-port.  Night  fell  as  they  rounded  Barrack  Walls. 
The  propylons  of  Great  Stadium,  vast  against  the  purple 
after-glow  of  Harinesian  sunset,  loomed  up  in  front.  They 
skirted  the  left-hand  propylon,  turned  into  a  long  alley, 
slackened  speed.  It  was  blue-dark  in  the  alley;  overhead, 
the  first  star  winked  between  high  battlements;  smooth 
black-stone  underfoot  felt  damp  to  the  Frenchman's  naked 
soles. 

"Why  don't  they  wear  sandals  under  these  infernal 
sollerets,"  he  thought.  .  .  . 

De  Gys  did  not  feel  entirely  sure  of  his  wisdom  in  dis- 
regarding the  Long'un's  advice.  Primarily,  he  feared  a  trap; 
walked  cautiously,  eyes  on  the  yellow  shape  ahead,  right 
hand  fingering  sword-hilt.  And  if  not  a  trap — then,  what? 
The  usual  intrigue  of  the  Orient?  Probably! 

214 


LOVE  AND  TRADING  215 

In  a  way,  the  prospect  thrilled;  called,  and  called  strongly, 
to  the  man's  vanity,  to  every  animal  nerve  in  his  gigantic 
frame.  But  the  brain  was  afraid;  the  brain  recognized  danger; 
the  brain  remembered  Pu-yi's  message  at  Luang-prabang,  the 
warnings  of  Tomasso  Negrini. 

He  began  to  think  of  Melie — la  petite  Melie.  How  soft 
Melie  had  been — how  womanly.  But  that  one !  A  tigress — 
a  veritable  man-eating  tigress.  Still — if  only  for  Melie's 
sake — he  must  go  to  her. 

"A  thorn  to  extract  a  thorn,"  he  thought.  "There  is  no 
other  way."  And  his  mind,  the  curious  Gallic  mind  which 
can  "play"  the  emotions  of  women  as  Englishmen  play  the 
hooked  trout,  flexed  itself  for  encounter. 


The  boy  paused  at  a  bronze  postern-gate;  drew  a  small 
wooden  hammer  from  his  sleeve;  knocked  three  times;  and, 
muttering  something  which  sounded  like  "Bly",  sped  off  fast 
as  feet  could  carry  him.  De  Gys,  hand  still  at  sword-hilt, 
watched  him  disappear — a  dwindle  of  yellow  among  purple 
shadows. 

"And  now?"  mused  Rene  de  Gys.  The  postern-gate  was 
opening;  it  swung  back,  noiselessly.  Upcurled  finger-tips 
beckoned;  he  followed  them.  The  gate  closed:  he  stood  in 
darkness.  His  guide — a  girl,  he  judged,  by  the  rustle  of  her 
robes,  the  scent  of  her  hair — put  a  timid  hand  on  his  naked 
forearm.  He  stepped  forward  ten  paces,  heard  the  swish  of 
a  curtain.  More  darkness.  The  grip  on  his  arm  tightened, 
urging  him  this  way  and  that. 

They  emerged,  abruptly,  into  a  star-lit  forecourt,  bounded 
on  three  sides  by  gloomy  porticoes  and  on  the  fourth — which 
faced  them — by  a  wall  of  rock.  In  the  centre  of  the  fore- 
court, its  white  feathers  ghostly  under  starlight,  plashed  a 
fountain.  High  up  on  the  rock  wall  square  blue  glimmers 
betrayed  gazeboes. 

Upcurled  finger-tips  beckoned  forward  again.  The  guide — 
now  obviously  female — moved  swiftly  past  the  fountain, 
indicated  a  triangular  opening  in  the  base  of  the  rock,  passed 


216  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

through.  Here  a  wall-lamp  showed  stairs.  They  began  to 
climb. 

Stairs  ended;  the  timid  hand  touched  his  arm;  once  more 
they  trod  darkness;  once  more  he  heard  the  swish  of  a  cur- 
tain. 

"A  fortress,"  thought  de  Gys,  "a  veritable  fortress." 

But  save  for  its  arm-stand  the  room  in  which  the  French- 
man finally  found  himself  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  in- 
terior of  a  fortress. 

It  was  a  boudoir,  an  Oriental  boudoir.  Silken  rugs 
carpeted  the  floor,  curtained  the  octagonal  walls.  Lamps  of 
silver  filigree-work  diffused  azure  gleams  from  the  low  ceiling. 
On  a  couch  of  pittising  skins  lay  a  dozen  robes — each  more 
gorgeous  than  its  neighbour.  The  girl  pointed  first  to  these 
then  to  de  Gys'  harness. 

De  Gys  made  signs  that  the  girl  should  go  away;  but 
Su-rah's  satellite — he  could  see  now  that  she  was  young,  slim, 
slitty-eyed,  and  attractive — only  gave  a  little  laugh,  bent  to 
her  work. 

"When  in  Harinesia,"  thought  de  Gys,  and  submitted  to 
her  ministrations. 

Bit  by  bit — sollerets,  greaves,  helmet,  sword,  and  breast- 
plate— the  satellite  relieved  him  of  his  trappings.  Then  she 
flitted  to  the  couch;  seemed  to  hesitate  over  her  choice  of 
robes;  giggled  to  herself;  and  returned,  carrying  a  toga-like 
garment  of  peacock-blue  satin  heavily  bedragoned  with 
tarnished  gold.  This,  still  giggling  at  its  inadequacy,  she 
handed  to  de  Gys,  who  arranged  it  as  a  cape  over  his  vast 
shoulders. 

"Pas  si  mal!"  he  said  to  himself,  eyeing  the  effect  in  a 
mirror  of  solid  silver  the  girl  held  up.  "A  rapier  completes  the 
picture."  And  despite  the  satellite's  protests,  he  took  back 
Sword  Straight  from  the  arm-stand,  buckled  it  on. 

"Allans,  congai,"  commanded  Rene  de  Gys;  and  the  girl, 
stepping  to  the  wall-curtains,  held  them  aside  for  him  to 
pass. 

He  stood  alone,  at  one  end  of  a  vast  dim  apartment;  and 
for  a  moment  his  mind  could  not  grasp  it  Su-rah's.  Surely 


LOVE  AND  TRADING  217 

this  must  be  Cholon — Negrini's  smoke-room  in  the  house  of 
Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese.  But  no — it  was  only  that  ghost  of  a 
perfume,  that  faintest  odour  of  sweet  nuts  burning,  which 
brought  back  Cholon.  He  looked  across  the  dimness;  per- 
ceived, low  on  the  opposite  wall,  blue  flame  of  a  lamp;  above 
it,  the  star-studded  oblong  of  a  gazebo;  and  beneath,  the 
orange  twinkle  of  an  opium  flame. 

"Come,"  said  a  voice,  a  voice  which  made  even  the  harsh 
Kwan-hwa  seem  musical.  "  Come  to  me." 

Dimness  cleared,  and  he  saw  the  woman.  She  lay,  facing 
him,  prone  on  a  low  divan,  elbows  sunk  among  the  luxuriance 
of  purple  cushions,  fingers  propping  cheeks.  Her  eyes  were 
luminous,  luminous  gelatine,  like  a  cat's.  They  drew  him  to 
her  across  the  smoothness  of  silken  rugs.  .  .  . 

He  looked  down  on  her;  knew  her  very  beautiful.  In  that 
dim  lamplight  the  upturned  face  might  have  been  a  white 
woman's.  The  hair,  not  bobbed  in  the  fashion  of  yellow- 
island-country  but  long  and  lustrous  as  the  dark  of  butter- 
fly wings,  held  no  jewels — only  fragrance,  the  overpowering 
fragrance  of  tuberoses.  It  rippled  down — a  shimmering 
mantle — over  the  draperies  of  purple  silk  which  half-hid, 
half -revealed  the  slope  of  smooth  shoulders,  curve  of  dimpled 
back,  lithe  suppleness  of  limbs. 

She  raised  one  hand.  He  touched  it,  felt  slim  fingers  cool 
against  his  palm. 

"Thou  art  less  a  lover  than  N'ging,  Man  of  the  Beard," 
whispered  Su-rah.  "He  brought  kisses;  thou,  a  sword." 

Understanding,  de  Gys  raised  the  cool  fingers  to  his  lips. 
A  little  breeze  from  the  gazebo  stirred  the  fragrance  of  her. 

"Take  off  thy  weapon/' 

He  obeyed. 

"And  now,  sit  here  close  to  me.  Thou  likest  the  black 
smoke?" 

He  declined.     "I  thank  thee,  Su-rah." 

"As  thou  pleasest.  It  is  good  smoke."  She  smiled  at  the 
open  lamp.  "The  common  people  make  it.  For  them,  the 
smoking  is  forbidden  by  our  edicts;  but  Mandarins'  orders 
are  not  for  Mandarins  to  obey." 


218  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

De  Gys,  uncertain  of  his  ground,  laid  a  huge  palm  on  the 
soft  shoulders.  "Thou  art  very  lovely,  woman  of  the 
lamplight  and  the  starlight." 

"I  am  glad  thou  thinkest  me  beautiful."  She  looked  up 
at  him;  averted  the  glow  of  her  eyes.  "Tell  me,  wert  thou 
the  friend  of  N'ging?" 

He  hesitated,  aware  of  danger.  "  I  was  with  him  when  he 
died." 

"Did  he  speak  to  thee  of — her  whom  thou  thinkest  beauti- 
ful?" 

"Aye" — now  de  Gys  drew  bow  at  venture — "he  bade  me 
trust  in  her  for  that  which  I  sought  in  yellow-island-country." 

"Aa."  A  pause.  "And  did  he  not  speak  of  another — a 
white  woman?" 

"Of  such  an  one,  too,  he  spoke.  Bitterly.  Saying  that 
she  had  deceived  him,  that  she  was  dead." 

"God  forgive  me  that  lie,"  thought  the  Frenchman. 

Again  Su-rah  lay  silent;  but  the  body  under  his  hand  be- 
trayed emotion.  The  smooth  muscles  flexed — pleasurably — 
as  to  a  caress.  Yet  he  had  not  caressed  her! 

After  a  while  she  said:  "Thou,  too,  art  of  the  White 
Tiger?" 

"Even  so." 

"And  thy  two  friends?" 

"They  also." 

"But  what" — the  question  was  almost  a  threat — "what 
do  three  white  men  seek  in  yellow-island-country?" 

"That  which  all  white  men  seek — 

"White  women?"  The  back-muscles  rose  angrily  under 
de  Gys'  hand. 

"Nay,  foolish  one!" — he  bent  over  her,  brushing  an  ear 
with  his  lips.  "Who,  having  looked  upon  the  sunflower, 
would  desire  the  lily?" 

He  would  have  gathered  her  to  him,  but  she  struggled, 
digging  her  elbows  deeper  into  the  cushions,  burying  herself 
from  his  embrace.  He  desisted. 

"Name  of  a  name,"  mused  Rene  de  Gys,  "the  affair  does 
not  progress."  He  looked  down  at  his  great  sword,  runnel  of 


LOVE  AND  TRADING 

blue  in  the  starlight;  at  the  woman,  prone  under  the  mantle 
of  her  hair;  at  the  lamp  above  their  heads,  the  open  lamp 
on  the  floor.  He  looked  across  the  dimness  of  that  vast 
apartment.  And  the  thought  came  to  him :  "Kill  quickly — 
and  fly." 

Su-rah's  body  stirred;  she  glanced  up  over  her  shoulder 
into  his  face. 

"Did  N'ging  tell  thee" — the  orange  centres  of  her  eyes 
dwindled  to  glowing  pin-points — "how  he  first  came  to  our 
country?" 

"  Nay.  What  have  we  to  do  with  N'ging,  thou  and  I  ?  He 
is  with  his  ancestors." 

"He  should  have  told  thee.  The  bowmen  found  him, 
starving  and  waterless,  on  the  limestone  ridges  beyond  Outer 
Gates.  I  was  of  the  villages  in  those  days — a  child.  .  .  . 
We  came  to  Bu-ro  together;  and  together  we  served  in  the 
yamen  of  Kun-mer.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  know  of  what 
N'ging  died?" 

"Of  the  black  smoke."  "Another  trap,"  thought  the 
Frenchman. 

"It  was  rumoured  here  that  he  died  of  poison." 

"  He  died  of  the  black  smoke.    Remember,  I  was  with  him." 

"Aa."  The  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  her.  He  ventured 
a  hand  through  her  hair;  felt  the  curve  of  her  shoulders 
rigid  under  his  finger-tips. 

Suddenly  she  shot  her  question  at  him : 

"Thou  comest  for  the  women  of  the  Bloo  Loy?" 

"I  am  here  for  no  woman."  His  hand  withdrew.  "Who 
are  these  Bloo  Loy — jealous  one?" 

"Thou  dost  not  know?" 

"Nay." 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbows;  sidled  closer. 

"Thou  art  here  for  no  woman?" 

"Only  for  thee." 

Her  fingers  clutched  the  silk  of  his  cape. 

"How  can  I  believe  thee?"  asked  the  woman  Su-rah. 

"Thus."  He  gathered  her  up  to  him,  seeking  her  lips. 
Her  free  hand  fought  him,  and  he  loosed  her  a  little. 


220  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Tell  me  what  ye  three  white  men  seek  in  yellow-island- 
country." 

"Money.  The  profit  of  the  black  smoke  which  pays  no 
lekim  duty." 

"N'ging,  also,  made  that  his  pretext." 

But  now  he  knew  her  weakening.  He  caught  her  to  him 
again;  felt  her  writhe  against  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

"I  speak  truth." 

"Wilt  thou  swear?"  An  elbow  looped  his  neck,  drew  his 
face  down  to  her. 

"By  the  Four  Truths  of  Gautama  Siddartha!" 

"What  are  Buddhist  vows  to  me?  Swear  by  my  Gods,  by 
Mahl-tu  and  by  Ko-nan  that  thou  dost  not  seek  the  women 
of  the  BlooLoy!" 

"I  swear  it." 

"By  my  gods."    Amorous,  she  strained  him  to  her. 

"Aye,  by  thy  gods."  He  took  her  in  his  great  arms, 
lifting  her  to  him.  "Dost  thou  believe?" 

"Aye.  It  is  enough.  I  believe  thee."  Feverishly  her 
lips  met  his. 


She  knelt  to  him,  making  the  old  obeisance  of  her  tribe. 
Long  since  wall-lamp  and  floor-lamp  had  expired.  Only 
from  the  oblong  gazebo  above  their  divan  came  light — gleam 
of  paling  stars  that  shimmered  on  her  bowed  head,  on  the 
upraised  palms,  on  the  bared  shoulders. 

"O  my  King  and  friend  of  my  King,  how  can  I  be  of  ser- 
vice to  thee?"  said  the  woman  Su-rah. 

She  slithered  to  him,  knees  and  insteps  brushing  against 
the  carpet-silk;  her  eyes,  tamed  and  submissive,  lifted  to 
his  face. 

"  Speak  to  me,  King  and  friend  of  my  King,  hast  thou  need 
of  these  hands  to  work  for  thee,  of  these  eyes  to  see  for  thee, 
of  this  body  to  do  thy  bidding?" 

She  bowed  her  head  once  more,  and  Rene  de  Gys,  wise  to 
the  mastery  of  sex,  spoke  gruffly — as  he  would  have  spoken 
to  Phu-nan. 


LOVE  AND  TRADING 

"Aye.  I  have  need  of  thee.  Rest  here  at  my  feet;  and 
listen,  answering  truth  when  I  bid." 

She  couched  herself,  as  a  cat  couches,  against  his  shinbones. 

"Speak  thy  will,  King." 

"I  have  need  of  thee  in  this  matter  of  the  black  smoke. 
Do  thy  fellow-Mandarins  speak  the  Kwan-hwa?" 

"Only  Kun-mer."     She  shivered. 

"Thou  hatest  Kun-mer.     Why?" 

"Because  I  was  his  slave — because  he  beat  me." 

"I  told  thee  to  answer  truth."  He  flicked  her  shoulders, 
lightly,  with  his  great  fingers.  "Women  do  not  hate  those 
who  beat  them.  Answer — or  I  come  no  more  to  thy  yamen." 

"I  hate  him" — de  Gys  could  see  the  hands  clench  round 
her  knees — "  because  he  would  bring  the  women  of  the  Bloo 
Loy  to  yellow-island-country." 

"It  is  good.  Tell  no  more  lies.  Can  I  trade  with  Kun- 
mer?" 

"Nay.  Kun-mer  is  but  President  of  the  Council.  Thou 
must  trade  first  with  Them  of  the  Storehouses,  with  Egg  and 
Kroo,  with  Hob  and  Mun-nee  the  Scribes.  It  will  be  a  long 
trading — by  the  signs  and  by  the  palmetto-leaf.  Hob  and 
Mun-nee  write  the  Kwan-hwa,  though  they  do  not  speak 
it.  Afterwards  the  Council  will  confirm." 

"Explain  thyself,  woman." 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  furtively.  "My  King  does  not 
understand.  Here,  in  yellow-island-country,  are  neither 
merchants  nor  market-places.  All  that  is  sold,  we,  the 
Mandarins,  sell  for  the  good  of  the  people." 

"That  also  is  a  lie.  The  common  people  have  no  money — 
as  these  eyes  have  seen." 

Su-rah  laughed — a  wicked  laugh,  low  in  the  throat. 
"They  have  rice,  and  a  little  tea,  houses  for  their  women, 
and  the  joys  of  labour.  They  are  not  penned  in  cities — as 
we  their  rulers.  Their  needs  are  not  our  needs.  This  my 
King  will  learn  when  he  trades  with  Hob." 

"Have  done  with  rigmaroles,  woman" — de  Gys  laid  a 
menacing  hand  on  the  gurgling  throat — "the  dawn  breaks; 
and  ere  night  falls  I  would  finish  my  business." 


222  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Even  my  King  cannot  do  that."  She  was  submissive 
again,  the  beaten  animal.  "To-morrow  begins  Bow  Feast. 
And  for  three  days  there  will  be  sword-play  and  arrow-play 
and  axe-play.  Afterwards  .  .  .  but  I  weary  my  King: 
will  he  not  sleep  awhile?" 

"Aye,  the  King  is  weary — but  not  with  sleep.  Thou 
weariest  him  with  thy  lies."  He  bent  down;  struck  her 
lightly  between  the  shoulders. 

"Let  my  King  but  have  patience,"  she  whined,  "and  I 
will  tell  him  all." 

"Tell  me  of  the  trading  with  Them  of  the  Storehouses  and 
with  the  Council.  Be  brief — or  I  whip  thee  again." 

"How  can  I  be  brief?  It  is  a  long  trading.  My  King 
must  visit  all  the  Mandarins — now  one,  now  the  other. 
To-day,  Hob  shall  bid  him  welcome,  saying  this;  and  to- 
morrow, Mun-nee  shall  bid  him  welcome,  saying  that.  In 
Veeb's  yamen  must  he  tarry  three  moons,  paying  court  to 
the  chief  wife  of  Veeb — an  old  woman,  but  very  powerful  in 
Bu-ro.  Shor  the  Windy-belly  also  shall  detain  him — telling 
him  fables.  And  O-rag  bid  him  wait  among  the  wage- 
slaves  while  he  dallieth  with  his  short-haired  women.  Also 
my  King  must  drink  sam-shu  with  the  traitor  Ram-sa;  and 
take  Puerh  in  the  house  of  La'nsbir.  Thus,  when  the  matter 
of  my  King's  trading  cometh  before  the  full  Council — I  also 
being  present — the  Council  will  give  him  good  measure  of  the 
poppy  for  the  silver  which  he  brings  them."  She  paused. 
Her  hands  caressed  him.  "I  have  spoken  truth.  Is  my 
King  pleased?" 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his,  stroked  the  upcurling 
fingers.  "Aye.  I  am  pleased  with  thee,  Su-rah.  The 
matter  is  plain.  Now,  let  me  think." 

De  Gys,  who  knew  the  methods  of  yellow  officialdom, 
thought  for  a  long  time;  watching  the  woman,  wondering  how 
far  he  might  trust  her. 

Now  and  again  her  free  hand  fondled  him.  Starshine 
faded.  Above  them  dawn  wind  whispered  through  the 
gazebo. 

After  a  while  she  spoke:  "My  King  need  give  no  more 


LOVE  AND  TRADING 

thought  to  his  trading.  If  my  King  will  permit,  these 
hands" — she  lifted  them,  odorous  palms  upturned,  to  his 
lips — "shall  be  his  hands  while  he  tarrieth  in  Bu-ro." 

He  played  with  her:  "The  hands  of  Su-rah  are  too 
beautiful  for  the  scales  of  the  poppy-merchant.  The  hands 
of  Su-rah  were  made  for  love.  For  love,"  and — meaningly — 
"for  gifts." 

"My  King  is  gracious  to  his  servant." 

Now  de  Gys  understood.  "There  is  one  case  of  silver 
for  thee — because  I  love  thee,  Su-rah." 

"Aa."    Her  fingers  twined  in  his  beard. 

"  Qa  marche"  he  thought,  (ga  marche  bigrement  bien.  It  was 
Su-rah  who  traded  for  Negrini — and  for  the  White  Tiger. 
Pu-yi's  message  at  Luang-prabang  held  wisdom." 

"My  King  need  not  weary  himself  among  the  Mandarins. 
These  lips" — she  drew  him  to  her,  laid  them  against  his 
cheek — "  these  lips  shall  speak  for  him  in  the  house  of  Hob,  to 
Mun-nee  and  the  chief  wife  of  Veeb.  Kiss  them,  O  King, 
teach  them  in  all  things  to  do  thy  bidding." 

He  stooped  to  her,  lifting  the  lithe  form  in  his  great  arms, 
set  it  upon  his  knees.  She  snuggled  against  him  as  he  kissed 
her;  answered  his  kisses;  clung  to  him.  But  now,  through 
the  tangled  fragrance  of  her  hair,  de  Gys  could  see  the  blade  of 
Sword  Straight,  gleaming  white  and  whiter  in  the  pallor  of 
day. 

Gently  he  set  her  down  from  his  knees. 

"It  grows  late,  Su-rah.  My  friends  will  be  anxious  for 
me." 

She  eyed  his  huge  torso  as  he  rose  from  the  divan.  "My 
King  is  cruel  to  his  servant." 

"I  will  come  again."  He  twirled  the  cape  round  his 
shoulders;  stooped  for  his  sword.  "I  will  come  again, 
sunflower  one." 

"It  shall  be  as  my  King  pleases."  Submissively,  Su- 
rah led  way  across  the  dawn-dim  apartment;  held  up  the 
curtain  of  the  tiring-room.  Without  a  word,  without  even 
a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  de  Gys  passed  through;  heard 
the  curtain  swish  behind  him;  found  the  silver  lamps  still 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

burning,  the  weary  satellite  already  on  her  feet  by  the  arm- 
stand. 


"My  King!"  Su-rah's  homage  seemed  to  echo  in  de  Gys' 
ear  as  he  puzzled  his  way  back  to  the  barracks  of  the  bow- 
men. "My  King!"  All  the  Royalist  in  him  rose  to  the 
words.  His  casqued  head  lifted  proudly;  the  fluted  edges  of 
his  sollerets  rang  a  merry  tune  on  the  black-stone.  Above 
him  the  crenellated  gateway  of  Great  Stadium  loomed  weird 
against  the  dawn  sky.  "My  King!"  he  muttered,  hand  on 
sword-hilt.  "And  I — I  stoop  to  trade  with  yellow  Man- 
darins." 


CHAPTER  THE  NINETEENTH 

The  sword,  the  axe,  the  arrow — and  the  ink-brush 

THE  ritual  of  Bow  Feast,  which  is  carved  in  the  lost 
writing   of  the  Lo-los  round  the   bronze  gallery  of 
Banqueting  Place  begins  thus:    "On   the  first  day, 
when  the  companies  are  all  foregathered,  there  shall  be  a 
great   Eating.     On   the   second  day,   the  companies    shall 
assemble  in  Fighting  Ground,  displaying  themselves  before 
the  Emperor  and  the  people;  and  on  that  night  also  shall  be  a 
great  Eating.     On  the  third  day,  the  companies  shall  give 
proof  of  their  prowess  with  the  Sword  and  with  the  Throwing- 
axe,  and  with  the  Long-bow." 

It  was  now  afternoon  of  the  third  day. 


From  the  awning-decked  balcony  of  West  Propylon — 
"Emperor's  Balcony"  ere  the  prophet  Kahl-ma  came  to 
Harinesia — Cyprian  Beamish  looked  out  over  Great  Stadium. 
Below  him  the  helmets  of  the  bowmen  banded  the  vast  red 
arena  with  six  lines  of  yellow  fire. 

"I  oughtn't  to  like  this  sort  of  thing,"  decided  Cyprian 
Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow.  Nevertheless,  he  did  like  it. 

The  huge  oblong  of  Fighting  Ground,  banked  either  side 
with  tier  on  tier  of  flashing  robes,  with  laughing  faces  and 
applauding  hands;  the  flat  roof  of  Elephant-stables,  sprout- 
ing its  crop  of  sun-umbrellas  like  some  uncanny  mushroom 
bed;  the  saffron  rock  of  Su-rah's  yamen,  gazeboes  alive  with 
tiny  heads;  the  blazing  blue  above  and  the  helm-starred  red 
below;  all  these  made  a  picture  of  sheer  pageantry  whose 
appeal  not  even  a  Beamish  could  resist. 

225 


226  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

He  felt  rather  flattered,  too,  at  being  among  the  Mandarins. 
Kun-mer,  blood-robed,  expressionless  as  ever,  saffron  skull- 
cap low  over  unwinking  eyes,  sat  on  his  right;  on  his  left, 
Pa-sif .  Every  now  and  then  these  two  looked  at  one  another 
— mistrustfully,  it  seemed  to  Beamish,  and  twice  they  ex- 
changed unintelligible  words.  The  rest  of  the  Council,  all 
save  Su-rah — who,  according  to  custom,  watched  from  her 
yamen — were  grouped  behind  him.  They  also — the  doctor 
thought — were  slightly  at  loggerheads. 

There  came  a  pause  in  the  games:  preliminary  exercises 
over,  the  six  lines  broke  into  chattering  knots  of  men.  Satel- 
lites brought  sam-shu  to  Emperor's  balcony.  But  though 
both  Kun-mer  and  Pa-sif  pressed  cups  on  him,  Beamish  re- 
fused them. 

Poor  Beamish !  His  headache  had  lasted  a  whole  day,  his 
shamefacedness  three.  And  those  three  days  would  have 
been  sufficiently  complicated  without  headaches.  The  orgies 
in  Banqueting  Place  alone  were  enough  to  try  a  white  man's 
nerves  to  breaking-strain;  but,  in  addition,  the  Long'un  had 
fallen  out  with  de  Gys. 

Sitting  there,  in  the  green-shaded  warmth  of  the  balcony, 
the  doctor  tried  to  reason  out  his  friends'  quarrel.  The 
Frenchman,  of  course,  was  enormously  to  blame;  had  no 
right — even  with  the  best  motives — to  carry  on  his  intrigues 
with  Su-rah. 

Still — the  trade  progressed.  Already  Hob's  satellite  had 
left  "cards" — three  foot-square  palmetto-leaves  inscribed  with 
brushed  hieroglyphics;  already  Mun-nee  had  invited  them 
to  the  Storehouses,  escorted  them  through  miles  and  miles  of 
packed  go-downs  to  a  sickly  smelling  cave  where  the  opium- 
jars  stood,  thick  as  jam-pots  in  a  European  household's 
larder,  round  the  ledged  walls;  already  four  of  the  twelve 
specie-boxes  had  been  fetched  away — secretly  and  by  night — 
to  mysterious  destinations. 

"One  must  bribe,  I  suppose,"  mused  Beamish,  "but  I  wish 
one  needn't."  And  he  speculated,  for  the  first  time,  whether 
perhaps  nationalized  trading  might  not  be  a  trifle  too  com- 
plicated for  everyday  life.  Then  he  looked  across  at  his  two 


SWORD,  AXE,  ARROW,  AND  INK-BRUSH    227 

friends — wondered  whether  they  three  would  ever  reach  that 
goal  of  all  their  hopes — the  Land  of  the  Flower. 


So  far,  De  Gys  and  the  Long'un  had  taken  no  part  in  the 
games.  They  sat  in  shadow — harnessed  but  helmetless, 
Phu-nan  at  their  feet,  their  weapons  beside  them — on  the 
lower  step  of  Elephant-stables.  Behind,  Nak  fidgeted 
against  his  bars;  danced  mountainously  on  restless  limbs. 

"As  a  spectacle,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "this  leaves  nothing 
to  be  desired.  But  your  gladiatorial  idea,  mon  vieux,  seems 
to  have  been  based  on  a  misapprehension." 

"Then  what  did  Akiou  mean  when  he  spoke  of  the  Big 
Killing?"  and  Dicky,  still  angry  with  his  friend,  added: 
"Your  Mandarinette  ought  to  tell  you  about  these  things." 

"She  is  quite  charming,  the  little  Su-rah.  But  she  is  very 
reticent." 

"I  quite  believe  it.  They  are  all  charming — the  Man- 
darinettes."  Long'un  glanced  up  appreciatively  at  the 
banked  tiers  of  faces  under  their  variegated  sun-umbrellas. 
"Delightful — but  dangerous.  As  for  their  men.  .  .  ." 

"  Their  men ! "  De  Gys  laughed  scornfully.  "  Except  for 
Them  of  the  Bow  and  possibly  Kun-mer — there  are  no  men 
in  City  Bu-ro.  Look  at  them,  mon  vieux.  Clerks — every 
one  of  them.  Su-rah  says" — Dicky  winced — "that  they 
are  only  fit  to  handle  the  abacus  or  the  ink-brush." 

Akiou,  drawn  blade  in  hand,  interrupted  their  conver- 
sation. "The  sword-play  begins,"  said  Akiou.  "Come, 
Bearer  of  Sword  Straight,  and  see  if  our  Company  has  bene- 
fited by  thy  teaching." 

They  donned  helmets,  took  weapons,  sauntered  out  across 
the  sunshine.  At  sight  of  them  a  murmur  ran  up  and  down 
the  benches:  "The  Bloo  Loy!"  "The  Bloo  Loy."  Um- 
brellas rose  as  they  passed,  subsided  again.  They  heard 
a  faint  clapping  of  little  hands.  .  .  . 

In  the  shadow  below  the  propylons  stood  the  sword- 
players,  twenty  from  each  company.  They  faced  each 
other,  three  mailed  groups — Buk's  men  against  Sen-na's, 


228  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Ath's  against  M-i-kwi's,  Keo's  against  Akiou's.  Bowmen 
and  axemen  waited^their  turn.  The  captains  lounged  by  the 
gateway. 

"Akiou  brings  his  Bloo  Loy,"  grumbled  Ath. 

"If  he  enters  them,  I  appeal  to  Kun-mer."  Keo,  sour- 
faced,  thin-lipped,  and  clean-shaven,  dug  his  point  into  the 
sand. 

"We  shall  not  need  our  Bloo  Loy."  Akiou  had  reached 
his  comrades  while  they  yet  argued.  "Does  the  wager  still 
stand,  Keo?" 

"Aye.  For  Sword,  Axe,  and  Arrow.  Two  bows  against 
one." 

"Then  let  the  play  begin." 

Ath,  the  brass  on  his  huge  belly  winking  like  a  soup-tureen, 
heaved  out  an  order:  the  groups  closed  to  five  paces.  De 
Gys  and  the  Long'un  saw  that  the  swordsmen  wore — in 
addition  to  their  usual  harness — curious  eye-guards  and 
wristlets  of  chain-mail. 

"Strange!  "pondered  the  Long'un.  "  Very  strange.  It  re- 
minds one"  .  .  .  and  again  he  seemed  to  guess  the  secret 
of  Harinesia. 

"Arkt!"  shouted  Ath.  Six  score  blades  rose  in  salute; 
dropped,  point  to  ground;  rose  again.  "Zo  /"  shouted  Ath: 
and  with  answering  shouts  the  mailed  men  sprang  for  each 
other.  .  .  . 

Beamish,  still  lost  in  thought,  heard  Kun-mer  gasp  aston- 
ishment; saw  bowmen  and  axemen  spring  from  their 
haunches,  dash  towards  the  gateway;  heard  clash  on  clash  of 
steel  below  him;  peered  over  the  balcony;  saw,  through  a 
cloud  of  scarlet  dust,  swords  beating  on  helmets,  swords 
shivering  against  breastplates,  swords  thrusting,  parrying, 
lunging  and  recovering,  swords  steady  as  stone  and  swords 
that  flickered  up  and  down  like  lightning  through  mist,  a 
clashing,  clittering  kaleidoscopic  trellis-work  of  swords  that 
baffled  his  inexpert  eye. 

But  the  eyes  of  Akiou's  men  were  not  baffled.  Steadily, 
using  that  deadliest  trick  of  fence  which  de  Gys  had  taught 
them;  steadily, sword-arms  outthrust,  wrists  at  shoulder-level; 


SWORD,  AXE,  ARROW,  AND  INK-BRUSH    229 

steadily,  point  parrying  blade,  point  circling  for  throat; 
steadily,  eye  watching  eye,  foot  following  foot;  steadily, 
tirelessly,  a  moving  cheval-de-frise,  gaping  comrades  behind 
and  gasping  foemen  in  front,  they  drove  towards  the  gateway. 

"  Cowards ! "  shrieked  Keo  to  his  men.  "  Cowards ! "  He 
whipped  his  sword  from  its  loop,  dashed  into  the  fray. 
"The  Gates ! "  howled  Akiou.  " The  Outer  Gates ! "  And  he, 
too,  darted  forward.  Scarlet  dust  rose  about  them — a  wall 
of  dust  that  hid  their  yellow  plumes.  Behind  the  wall 
Great  Stadium  rocked  to  tumult;  above,  Kun-mer's  blood- 
red  sleeves  waved  like  mad  semaphores. 

"Enough,"  shrieked  Kun-mer.     "Enough!     Keo  loses." 

But  neither  Akiou  nor  his  men  paid  heed.  Their  swords 
dragged  them  on.  They  could  feel  the  drag  of  their  swords. 
The  faces  at  their  sword-points  were  bare.  They  could  see 
the  veins  on  those  bare  faces.  The  faces  were  afraid  of 
them.  .  .  . 

And  then,  then  they  saw  no  more  faces,  only  one  face,  a 
great  bearded  face  that  trumpeted  like  Nak,  a  face  that 
turned  this  way  and  that,  a  terrible  face  that  feared  nothing. 

"Assez!"  roared  Rene  de  Gys.  "Assez!  Sauvages." 
He  towered  above  the  dust.  The  throwing-axe  in  his  hand 
was  a  flail.  He  beat  at  them  with  the  throwing-axe,  beating 
down  their  blades,  beating  on  their  helmets.  They  thrusted 
at  him,  conqueror  and  conquered,  crazy.  Their  blades 
shivered  against  his  harness.  His  axe  hewed  a  path  between 
their  thrusting  blades.  His  great  fist  crashed  among  their 
eye-pieces.  "Assez,  sauvages  !  Assez!"  Akiou's  men  stood 
off,  eyeing  their  opponents,  and  on  the  face  of  each  opponent 
Akiou's  men  saw  blood — the  blood  of  the  sword-point.  .  .  . 

Now  only  the  two  captains  still  fought.  For  a  second 
de  Gys  hesitated.  Then,  throwing-axe  dropped  from  his 
hand,  Sword  Straight  flashed  out  as  he  ran.  "Assez!"  he 
bellowed  once  more,  "assez."  Akiou  took  no  notice:  he  had 
driven  Keo  to  the  gateway;  his  point  was  at  Keo's  throat;  he 
lunged  upwards  between  Keo's  unprotected  eyes.  .  .  . 

"Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"  laughed  Rene  de  Gys.  "The  tigers! 
The  yellow  tigers!  I  taught  them  too  well."  Sword 


230  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Straight,  parrying  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  Keo's  eyelash, 
deflected  Akiou's  thrust.  In  a  second  both  opponents  had 
turned  on  their  separator  as  man  and  wife  will  turn  on  the 
interfering  stranger. 

"  Ho !     Ho !     Ho ! "  laughed  the  Frenchman. 

They  came  at  him;  and  he  played  with  them,  fending  their 
points  from  his  face.  He  felt  a  prick  on  his  sword-arm; 
laughed  no  more.  They  came  at  him  again.  Sword  Straight 
flickered  in  their  eyes.  They  stood  off,  panting.  He  flew  at 
them;  drove  them  before  him.  They  gave  back,  foot  by  foot. 
He  could  see  their  eyes,  mad  eyes,  murder  behind  them. 
They  separated:  he  lost  Keo's  eyes.  He  thought,  "This  is 
serious  work!"  He  shouted,  "A  moi,  Colonel!"  .  .  . 

Beamish,  nearly  out  of  the  balcony  with  excitement,  saw 
the  three  fighting  figures  emerge  round  the  angle  of  the 
propylon,  saw  a  fourth  figure  leap  as  footballers  leap;  heard 
the  clang  of  mailed  men  crashed  heavily  to  ground  .  .  . 


Long'un,  wiping  the  sand  from  his  eyes,  rose  to  one  knee. 
Just  in  front  of  him — two  motionless  heaps  of  brass  and  chain- 
armour — lay  the  Harinesians.  He  had  tackled  them  low, 
one  with  either  arm,  as  they  lunged;  and  the  breath  was  still 
out  of  their  bodies.  Above  him — too  paralyzed  for  speech, 
Sword  Straight  yet  at  the  parry — stood  de  Gys.  The  rest  of 
the  picture  was  a  blur  of  yellow  faces,  some  whole,  some 
bloodstained,  but  all  caked  to  the  eyelashes  with  scarlet 
dust. 

Sen-na  and  Mi-kwi  ran  forward,  helped  him  to  his  feet. 
The  motionless  heaps  stirred,  turned  over,  rose  unsteadily, 
hands  still  grasping  their  swords.  The  tumult  in  Great 
Stadium  had  died  down  to  a  vague  mutter — as  of  folk  who 
could  not  realize  the  thing  seen. 

"  It  was  a  mistake,"  panted  Akiou  in  Kwan-hwa.  "  We  did 
not  know — we  did  not  understand.  .  .  ." 

"I  also,"  laughed  de  Gys,  "did  not  understand.  Do  you 
kill  each  other  at  this  sword-play?" 

"  It  has  been  known — in  the  old  days,"  said  Akiou.     "  Now 


SWOJRD,  AXE,  ARROW,  AND  INK-BRUSH    231 

we  only  seek  to  wound."  He  glanced  proudly  at  the  slashed 
cheeks  of  Keo's  men.  "The  Outer  Gates  won,  Keo." 

"Aye.     By  a  trick." 

"By  no  trick." 

"By  a  trick,  I  say."  Keo,  furious  at  defeat,  lifted  his 
sword  to  Emperor's  Balcony.  "I  appeal  to  Kun-mer. 
Akiou  has  broken  the  laws." 

"There  is  no  law  save  the  sword  for  the  sword-play." 
Kun-mer's  face  peered  down  from  the  propylon.  "Let  the 
games  go  on." 

Runner-boys  brought  swabs  and  bowls  of  water:  the 
wounded  dabbed  at  their  hurts,  and  the  women  watched 
them — thrilled  at  so  much  blood-letting.  "Charming  crea- 
tures," whispered  the  Long'un;  but  his  anger  against  de  Gys 
had  evaporated. 

"Will  there  be  more  sword-play,  think  you?"  laughed  the 
Frenchman. 

"I  doubt  it." 

And  the  Long'un  proved  right:  each  in  turn  Akiou  chal- 
lenged the  other  companies;  each  in  turn  their  captains  de- 
clined combat.  "Of  what  use — unless  we  learn  this  new 
trick?"  grumbled  Ath.  "But  wait  till  we  have  learned  it!" 
threatened  Mi-kwi. 

"Sportsmen!"  mumbled  the  Long'un,  overhearing. 
"Sportsmen — I  don't  think.'9 


Axe-play  began — a  long,  monotonous  game,  continually 
interrupted  by  the  runner-boys,  measuring  throws,  gathering 
up  the  axes,  by  the  click  of  the  marker's  abacus,  calculating 
the  aggregates  of  the  companies.  Here,  too,  Akiou's  men 
won  easily,  without  calling  on  de  Gys. 

But  axe-play  ended  at  last;  and  now — as  the  shadows  of 
the  propylons  lengthened  across  Fighting  Ground — a  thrill 
ran  round  the  packed  benches:  the  girls  whispered  together, 
the  men  between  them  bent  forward;  sun-umbrellas  folded  on 
the  roof  of  Elephant-stables;  tiny  heads  clustered  thicker  at 
Su-rah's  gazeboes;  Mandarins  crowded  to  the  rail  of  Em- 


232  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

peror's  Balcony.  For  only  twice  in  every  year — on  Third 
Day  and  on  Night  of  Judgment — do  the  mailed  men  strip 
to  the  kilt,  does  the  long-bow  twang  its  message  of  fear  in 
the  sacred  precincts  of  City  Bu-ro.  .  .  . 

"Is  the  harness  piled?"  Kun-mer,  upright  at  Beamish's 
side,  began  the  ancient  ritual. 

"Aye!  the  harness  is  piled."  The  six  captains,  rigid 
in  their  silver  kilts  on  the  scarlet  sand,  the  long  array  of 
archers  six  hundred  strong  behind  them,  raised  long-bows 
horizontal  in  salute. 

"Is  the  mark  set?" 

"Aye.     The  mark  is  set." 

"Are  the  bows  strung?" 

"Aye!    The  bows  are  strung." 

"And  arrows  ready?" 

"Aye!" — six  hundred  arms  raised  shafts  to  string — 
"  arrows  are  ready." 

"Are  the  strings  taut?" 

"Aye!" — six  hundred  thumbs  locked  to  gut — "the  strings 
are  taut." 

"Are  barbs  sharp?" 

"Aye!"— bows  flexed— "barbs  are  sharp." 

"Then  shall  play  begin." 

"Aye!  Let  it  begin."  Six  hundred  voices  roared  reply; 
six  hundred  bows  twanged  as  one;  six  hundred  shafts  soared 
whistling  to  the  sky,  turned  in  unison,  and  sung  down, 
quivering,  at  the  shooters'  feet. 

"  Akiou  never  showed  me  that  trick,"  mused  the  Long'un, 
as  he  strung  Skelvi,  and  stalked  grandly  from  the  gate- 
way. 

But  now  hubbub  arose  in  Fighting  Ground.  The  long 
array  of  archers,  rising  as  one  man  from  the  gathering  of  the 
shaft,  looked  upon  Skelvi,  upon  the  great  white  back  of 
Skelvi;  upon  the  Bearer  of  Skelvi,  white  as  the  seven-foot 
bow  in  his  hand,  sun  glinting  gold  upon  the  gold  of  his  hair; 
upon  the  black  shafts  a-rattle  in  the  quiver  at  his  naked 
shoulder;  upon  the  jingling  kilt  at  his  loins  and  the  white 
striding  limbs  below;  and  a  growl,  a  growl  as  of  men  already 


SWORD,  AXE,  ARROW,  AND  INK-BRUSH    233 

beaten,  rose  from  the  throats  of  the  archers,  ran  from  end  to 
end  their  long  array. 

"Dost  thou  enter  this  giant  of  the  Bloo  Loy?"  Keo,  still 
mad  with  defeat,  turned  upon  the  Captain  of  Outer  Gates. 

"Aye!"    Akiou  smiled  disdainfully  into  the  furious  eyes. 

"He  may  not  shoot.  He  is  not  of  the  Bow.  I  appeal  to 
Ath."  But  Ath,  knowing  the  Law,  only  shook  his  head. 
" To  thee,  then,  Mi-kwi?  To  thee,  Buk?  To  thee,  Sen-na?" 

"Of  what  use,  Keo?"  Mi-kwi,  straight  and  thin  as  the 
crimson  shaft  in  his  hand,  dug  at  the  sand  with  the  nock  of 
his  bow.  "Of  what  use?  Thou  knowest.  .  .  ." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  Bloo  Loy.'*  Keo  raised  his 
weapon  in  salute,  lifted  angry  face  to  Emperor's  Balcony. 
"  Kun-mer !  Kun-mer ! ' ' 

"Aye,  Captain  of  Inner  Gate." 

"I  appeal  to  thee.  This  is  a  man  of  the  Bloo  Loy." 
Yellow  fore-finger  pointed  accusingly  at  the  Long'un,  al- 
ready halted,  six  paces  from  the  captains.  "It  is  not  right 
that  he  should  shoot  with  Akiou's  company." 

"And  why,  Captain  of  Inner  Gate" — the  Mandarin's 
voice  was  the  suave  voice  of  a  lawyer  politician — "  why  is  it 
not  right?" 

"Because  he  is  of  the  Bloo  Loy." 

"  Is  it  then  written  upon  the  bronze  gallery  of  Banqueting 
Place  that  Bloo  Loy  may  not  shoot  at  the  Feast?" 

"How  should  I  know;  I,  who  cannot  read  the  lost  writing 
of  the  Lo-los?" 

"If  thou  couldst  read  the  lost  writing  of  the  Lo-los,  Keo" 
— Long'un,  watching  the  balcony,  saw  a  slow  smile  spread 
over  the  impassive  faces  above  the  rail — "perchance  thou 
wouldst  be  Captain  of  Bu-ro;  perchance  a  Scribe;  perchance 
even  a  Mandarin.  But  since  thou  canst  not  read,  hear 
from  us  the  Law  which  is  written.  The  words  are  simple, 
Keo.  'Whosoever  draweth  the  longest  bow — to  him  and  his 
company  the  prize.'  There  is  no  mention  of  the  Bloo  Loy, 
Captain  of  Inner  Gate." 

Kun-mer,  as  a  judge  pleased  with  his  own  judgment,  seated 
himself;  and  Keo,  impotent  against  the  Law,  turned  on  his 


234  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

heel.     Hubbub  subsided  in  Great  Stadium.     The  last  of  the 
games  began. 


For  hours — it  seemed  to  Beamish — he  had  been  watching 
that  long  line  of  white  posts  planted  like  a  fence  in  the 
scarlet  sand,  that  long  array  of  kilted  men,  the  bracered 
rights  rising  in  unison  under  the  arches  of  their  flexing  bows, 
the  gauntleted  lefts  drawing  barb  to  bow-back. 

For  hours  he  had  heard  nothing  but  the  barked  Bo  !  Fei  I 
Foy  !  of  the  captains,  the  twanging  of  the  centre-springs,  the 
rush  and  whistle  of  shafts,  the  crack  of  barbs  on  mark,  the 
plunk  of  barbs  on  sand,  the  pad  of  runner-boys'  naked  feet, 
the  tap  of  their  mallets  as  they  set  the  line  of  posts  farther 
and  farther  from  the  line  of  archers. 

And  always,  as  shafts  missed,  the  line  of  marks  thinned; 
and  always  the  number  of  the  archers  dwindled;  and 
always  the  stretch  of  scarlet  sand  between  mark  and  man 
grew  longer;  and  always  the  hum  of  voices  deepened  round 
Great  Stadium.  But  always,  loud  above  the  twanging  of  the 
lesser  bows,  loud  above  the  hum  of  the  people,  Beamish 
heard  the  twang  of  Great  Bow  Skelvi;  and  always,  looking 
to  Skelvi 's  mark,  he  saw  the  black  arrow  sing  straight  to 
centre,  splitting  the  white  lath  in  twain. 

Now,  as  a  hint  of  purple  sunset  flecked  the  glaring  saffron 
of  Su-rah's  yamen,  and  the  truncated  shadows  of  the  propy- 
lons  raced  near  and  nearer  to  the  steps  of  Elephant-stables, 
but  a  mere  handful  of  the  six  hundred  archers  remained: 
from  Keo's  company,  three;  from  Ath's,  none;  from  Buk's 
and  Mi-Kwi's,  two  apiece;  and  of  Akiou's  men,  only  Bearer  of 
Skelvi. 

"You  must  win,  mon  ami"  De  Gys,  carrying  Dicky's 
quiver,  drew  out  the  shaft,  examined  barb  and  feather, 
handed  it  to  his  friend. 

"  But  it  isn't  fair  shooting."  The  Long'un,  shading  his  eyes, 
peered  forward  at  the  runner-boys,  already  nearly  two  fur- 
longs away.  "  I've  got  the  range  of  them  by  a  good  hundred." 

"But  you  might  miss." 


SWORD,  AXE,  ARROW,  AND  INK-BRUSH    235 

"I  shan't  miss — except  on  purpose." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Colonel.  If  you  were  to  miss,  our 
prestige  would  suffer.  And  prestige,  in  our  situation,  is 
everything." 

"Good.  We'll  win!"  The  Long'un  spoke  confidently: 
but  there  was  little  confidence  in  his  heart.  The  fall  at  the 
sword-play  had  shaken  him;  failing  light  worried  his  eyes; 
his  shoulder-muscles  ached  from  the  draw  of  the  huge  wea- 
pon. The  runner-boys,  obviously  partisan,  finished  squab- 
bling over  their  marks;  malleted  the  eight  posts  home;  ran 
off  to  the  sides. 

"Bo!"  grunted  Ath,  taking  his  turn  for  command. 

Dicky,  right  of  the  line,  set  his  eyes  to  the  mark;  raised 
Skelvi;  took  the  arrow  from  de  Gys'  hand. 

"Fei!"  He  was  aware  of  bows  arching  at  his  left  eyeball. 
The  thin  far  mark  seemed  to  tremble,  like  a  shadow  in  rippled 
water,  between  the  upslanted  black  of  shaft  and  the  incurving 
yellow  of  bow-belly.  The  mark  steadied.  He  drew  the  last 
inch  to  eye-level,  felt  the  barb  cool  and  flat  at  forefinger,  felt 
Skelvi  tugging  like  Nak  against  the  ball  of  his  thumb. 

"Foi//"  Shaft  vanished;  bow-belly,  springing  rigid,  hid 
the  far  post  from  view.  For  a  full  second  the  Long'un  stood 
still  as  stone;  then  he  looked  up  over  the  bracer  on  his  out- 
stretched forearm,  saw  the  foreshortened  arrow  skimming 
higher  and  higher,  saw  it  reach  top-flight,  saw  the  barb  dip, 
followed  it  to  mark. 

"Magnifique!"  said  de  Gys'  voice,  as  shaft  struck  and  the 
white  lath,  split  from  an  end,  collapsed  in  halves  on  the  scar- 
let sand. 

"Not  bad,"  admitted  the  Long'un.  He  looked  at  the 
other  marks;  saw  three  still  standing.  .  .  . 

Now  only  five  bows  remained:  two  of  Keo's  company, 
one  each  from  Buk's  and  Mi-kwi's.  At  the  next  volley 
Buk's  man  failed;  at  the  next — his  shaft  falling  short  by 
inches — Mi-kwi's. 

"You  win,"  whispered  de  Gys. 

"Hope  so."  The  Long'un  had  begun  to  feel  nervous. 
The  shadows,  now  almost  purple,  had  engulfed  his  mark; 


236  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

at  five  hundred  yards  it  showed  like  a  hair-line  against  the 
sand.  Silence,  the  silence  of  ten  thousand  bated  breaths, 
brooded  over  Great  Stadium. 

"Bo!"  shouted  Mi-kwi. 

The  Long'un  could  hear  bare  toes  fidget  with  the  sand 
behind  him;  hear  the  tingle  of  the  tautening  strings  on  his 
left.  Skelvi  seemed  like  a  ton-weight  at  his  bow-hand. 

"Fei!"  shouted  Mi-kwi.  He  thought,  as  he  drew  to  eye- 
level,  "Supposing  the  gut  breaks,  supposing  .  .  ."  He 
could  almost  feel  the  gut  fraying  round  the  leashed  and 
quivering  nocks.  "Curse  Mi-kwi,  would  he  never  shout?" 

"  Foy  ! ' '     Finger  and  thumb  loosed  feathers  from  eye- level. 

He  was  too  nervous  to  watch  his  own  shaft:  he  watched 
the  other  shafts,  saw  one  pierce  home,  the  other  strike  sand 
at  foot  of  the  mark. 

"Encore  bon,"  said  de  Gys'  voice. 

"Encore  mat"  thought  the  Long'un.  His  remaining 
opponent,  a  wizened  yellow  rat  of  a  fellow,  grinned  sideways 
as  the  runner-boys  malleted  the  brace  of  posts  still  farther 
away.  They  shot  again;  and  both  marks  fell.  Again — and 
still  neither  missed. 

"Dree  bo  ane."  Keo's  voice,  confident  of  victory,  in- 
creased his  bet,  for  the  Arrow  counts  three  against  the  Sword 
and  the  Axe.  "Dree  bo  ane"  answered  Akiou. 

"I'm  beaten,"  thought  the  Long'un.  The  truncated 
shadows  of  the  propylons  had  reached  Elephant-stables, 
were  racing  up  the  saffron  rock  to  Su-rah's  gazeboes.  In 
Emperor's  Balcony  Beamish  could  hear  Kun-mer's  breath 
whistling  through  pursed  lips;  Pa-sif's  hands  were  locked 
talons  on  the  hot  rail.  From  the  packed  benches  round 
Great  Stadium  came  no  sound  save  the  occasional  click  of  a 
bead  necklace  as  some  woman's  head  craned  forward  be- 
tween the  bobbed  heads  below.  .  . 

Akiou,  taking  his  turn  for  command,  whispered  something  to 
de  Gys.  "He  says,"  whispered  the  Frenchman,  "that  if  you 
are  weary,  you  should  say  so.  The  light  fails.  If  you  call 
the  match  off,  we  win  by  the  Axe  and  by  the  Sword.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  Akiou  to  go  to  hell,"  muttered  the  Long'un.     He 


SWORD,  AXE,  ARROW,  AND  INK-BRUSH    237 

took  stance,  working  toes  of  left  foot  deep  into  the  sand, 
raised  Skelvi. 

"Fee  bo  ane"  betted  Keo's  voice.  For  Keo  could  see  that 
the  giant  of  the  Bloo  Loy  grew  weary,  that  his  hand  trembled 
as  he  fitted  string  to  string-slot.  Akiou  nodded  assent.  .  .  . 
But  there  seemed  no  sign  of  weariness  about  those  smooth 
shoulder-muscles  as  they  drew  feathers  from  bow-hand! 
Slowly  the  black  shaft  lengthened  from  bow-belly;  slowly, 
steadily,  bow-hand  swung  above  the  mark;  slowly,  steadily, 
leashed  nocks  a-quiver,  gut  strained  in  rigid  triangle  between, 
Great  Bow  Skelvi  flexed  to  semi-circle. 

"Foy!"  shouted  Akiou.     .     .     . 

Simultaneously  the  bows  twanged;  simultaneously  ten 
thousand  eyes  following  their  flight,  the  two  shafts  flew  sky- 
wards, curved  out  of  shadow  into  sunlight;  glittered;  dived; 
sang  hurrying  to  mark.  .  .  .  And  "damn  it!"  thought 
the  Long'un,  "he's  beaten  me."  For  clear  across  the  hush 
of  the  Stadium  came  two  sounds — the  sharp  crack  of  a 
splintered  mark,  and  the  soft  plunk  of  a  shaft  burying  itself 
in  sand.  .  .  . 

Then  the  Long'un  heard  de  Gys'  voice,  raised  in  an  ele- 
phant bellow  of  triumph: 

"We  win,  mon  vieux.  By  the  seven  sales  Bodies  I  slew  at 
Douamont,  we  beat  them  at  their  own  game." 


But  Cyprian  Beamish  heard  neither  the  twang  of  Skelvi, 
nor  the  crack  of  Skelvi's  mark,  nor  de  Gys'  elephant  bellow, 
nor  Nak's  trumpeting  reply,  nor  the  shouts  of  the  bowmen, 
nor  the  plaudit-clapping  of  little  hands  that  rippled  like 
machine-gun  fire  up  and  down  the  packed  benches  of  Great 
Stadium:  Cyprian  Beamish  heard  only  a  voice  at  his  right 
ear,  Kun-mer's  voice. 

"Hem,'"  whispered  Kun-mer.     "Hem  znee.    Geff." 
Beamish  was  aware  of  a  yellow  hand  on  his  knee;  looked 
down;  saw  something  in  the  hand;  snatched  it;  felt  the  ink- 
smeared  surface  of  palmetto-leaf;  thrust  the  message  out  of 
sight.     .     .     . 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTIETH 

Cunning  of  Kun-mer  and  cunning  of  de  Gys 

READ  the  message  again,  mon  vieux." 
The  Long'un,  prone  on  the  Frenchman's  couch, 
was  submitting  tired   body  to  the  expert   massage 
of  Phu-nan.     Beamish,  looking  more  like  a  runner-boy  than 
ever,  lounged  by  the  weapon-rack. 

"It  says" — de  Gys  held  Kun-mer's  message  close  to  the 
table-lamp —  "  'If  that  which  would  have  satisfied  the 
dead  will  satisfy  the  living,  let  one  meet  one  at  the  tomb  of 
the  Prophet  Kahl-ma  when  the  moon  is  clear  above  Emperor's 
Pyramid'." 

"Not  liked!"  said  the  Long'un.  "Not  liked  a  bit.  We 
know  what  would  have  satisfied  N'ging — the  Flower.  For 
all  N'ging  cared,  Kun-mer  could  have  wiped  out  the  Flower 
Folk." 

"Exactly."  De  Gys  thrust  the  leaf  into  the  lamp-flame, 
watched  it  shrivel  to  white  ash.  "Nevertheless,  one  must 

go." 

"And  what  will  happen  when  your  Mandarinette  finds 
out?"  chaffed  Dicky. 

"She  must  not  find  out.  She  is  very  charming,  la  petite, 
but  the  trade  tarries  too  long,  too  expensively,  in  her  charm- 
ing hands." 

"You  intend,  then,  to  pay  this  visit  behind  her  charming 
back?" 

"  Exactly."  The  Frenchman  grew  serious.  "  I  am  tired  of 
these  little  corruptions.  They  lead  nowhere.  But  if  I  can 
only  persuade  Kun-mer  to  send  Them  of  the  Bow  to  Quiver- 
ing Stone — and  us  with  them — we  and  the  Flower  Folk 
should  be  able  to  give  a  good  account  of  ourselves." 


CUNNING  OF  KUN-MER  239 

"Kun-mer's  too  artful  for  that,  mon  vieux." 

"I  also" — de  Gys  pulled  at  his  beard — "am  artful. 
And  these  Flower  Folk — my  countrymen  and  country- 
women. .  .  ." 

"We  have  as  yet  no  proof  that  the  Flower  Folk  are  your 
countrymen  and  countrywomen,"  interrupted  the  Long'un. 
"They  may  be  merely  another  aboriginal  tribe,  like  the 
Harinesians." 

"Sceptic!"  The  Frenchman  laughed.  "Haven't  we 
proof  enough:  Melie,  the  snuff-box,  Akiou's  story,  the  con- 
versation you  overheard  in  Banqueting  Place." 

"I'm  from  Missouri" — the  drawl  relapsed  into  one  of  its 
rare  Americanisms — "and  you've  got  to  show  me.  By  the 
way,  where  is  that  snuff-box,  de  Gys?" 

"I  don't  understand  your  Missouri,  mon  ami:  but  the 
snuff-box  is — mislaid."  The  Frenchman  glanced  mischiev- 
ously at  Beamish,  who  blushed.  "  Before  I  go — one  question : 
are  you  content  to  leave  this  matter  of  Kun-mer  in  my 
hands?" 

"I  leave  the  negotiations" — the  Long'un  wriggled  to  his 
elbows,  Phu-nan's  hands  beating  a  vigorous  tattoo  on  his  bare 
skin — "entirely  to  you.  But  I  wish  you'd  find  out,  either 
from  your  Mandarin  or  your  Mandarinette,  what  kind  of  prize 
they  intend  to  award  me  for  my  shooting  this  afternoon." 

De  Gys  accoutred  himself,  buckled  on  his  sword,  went  out. 


Kahl-ma's  tomb — rough  monument  of  red  limestone,  on 
which  discerning  eyes  still  trace  the  likeness  of  the  prophet's 
square  head  pierced  by  the  arrows  of  the  bowmen — faces 
Mahl-tu's  pillar  across  the  stark  black-stone  of  Great  Quay. 
Peering  down  to  it  from  the  base  of  Emperor's  Pyramid  the 
Frenchman  thought  he  could  see  a  tiny  robed  figure  awaiting 
him. 

"More  women,"  thought  the  Frenchman;  and  drawing 
Sword  Straight  three  inches  from  its  loop,  lest  the  scabbard- 
less  point  should  damage  itself  against  stone,  he  began  to  de- 
scend Great  Steps. 


240  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

The  night  was  still,  starlit;  senescent  moon,  just  topping 
the  Pyramid,  lit  Bu-ro  to  ghostly  radiance.  The  flat  rooves 
of  the  Storehouses  might  have  been  glazed  paper;  Mooring- 
platforms,  two  vast  ink-pots  against  the  deckel-edged  shim- 
mer of  Great  Basin. 

De  Gys  jumped  the  last  three  steps  with  a  clank  of  harness 
and  a  jingle  of  chain-mail,  strode  rapidly  across  Great  Quay. 
Save  for  the  figure  by  Kahl-ma's  tomb,  the  place  seemed 
deserted.  He  reached  the  tomb,  saw  that  the  figure  was  a 
man's — by  the  blood-red  of  his  long  robes,  one  of  Kun-mer's 
satellites. 

"Ko!"  said  the  satellite;  and  dived  into  the  dark  of  an 
alley  between  the  Storehouses.  De  Gys,  following  the  swish 
of  his  robes,  felt  his  way  along  a  wall  of  rough  granite;  in- 
clined to  his  right;  and  emerged  without  warning  into  the 
courtyard  of  Kun-mer's  yamen. 

The  usual  fountain  plashed  in  the  centre  of  the  courtyard; 
all  the  porticoes  glimmered  cheerful  lantern-light;  from  the 
gazeboes  trilled  laughter  of  girls'  voices.  They  traversed  one 
of  the  porticoes,  came  to  a  triangular  doorway.  Kun-mer's 
satellite  held  back  the  curtain,  signalled  de  Gys  to  enter. 


Exactly  in  the  centre  of  an  apartment  so  vast  as  to  dwarf 
the  many  vases  of  crimson  Satsuma-work,  dragon-scrolled, 
set  here  and  there  on  stands  of  scarlet  lacquer  whose  balled 
feet  sank  deep  into  the  scarlet  silk  Baluchi  rugs  which 
carpeted  the  floor — an  apartment  hung  with  blood-red  hang- 
ings of  Shan-tung  satin,  lit  by  thirty  silver  lamps  of  Avan 
filigree,  cooled  by  enormous  punkahs  of  maroon-coloured 
linen  that  swayed  steadily  to  the  silent  pull  of  invisible 
satellites — blood-robed  on  a  high  divan  piled  with  blood- 
red  cushions,  reclined  His  Transparent  Excellency,  Kun-mer. 

Saffron  skull-cap — sole  relief  in  the  monotonous  colour- 
scheme — was  pulled  low  over  square  forehead,  almost  hiding 
the  white  and  beetling  brows,  the  crafty  eyes  beneath 
them. 

"I  bid  you  welcome,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight  and  friend  of 


CUNNING  OF  KUN-MER  241 

my  friend  N'ging. "  The  Mandarin's  yellow  fingers  indicated 
a  stool  near  his  couch. 

"I  greet  you,  Kun-mer."  De  Gys,  seating  himself  with 
difficulty — for  both  sword  and  kilt  made  the  position  un- 
comfortable— gazed  long  at  the  high  cheekbones,  the  droop- 
ing white  moustache,  the  hatchet  chin. 

"Will  you  smoke?" 

"If  you  have  tobacco,  yes." 

"I  have  tobacco,  also  Ingrit  fire-wood."  To  de  Gys' 
amazement  Kun-mer  produced  not  only  a  bottle  of  Manilas, 
but — wonder  of  wonders,  a  box  of  English  safety  matches. 

Said  Kun-mer,  as  the  Frenchman,  laying  down  his  helmet, 
bit  and  lit  the  cheroot:  "You  are  astonished." 

"A  little." 

"  Because  you  have  not  found  these  things  in  " — the  voice 
dropped — "that  other  yamen."  De  Gys,  thoroughly  dis- 
comforted, inhaled  a  vast  puff  of  fragrant  smoke.  "And 
yet,"  went  on  Kun-mer,  "what  easier  than  to  caravan  these — 
necessities — with  the  other  necessities  which  we  caravan  for 
the  benefit  of  the  people,  with  the  Shan  cottons  and  the  tea 
from  I-bang.  It  is  a  great  burden,  this  burden  of  govern- 
ment, and  we  who  slave  for  the  common  weal  need  our 
relaxations." 

The  crafty  eyes  above  the  white  moustache  turned  to 
the  red-brown  eyes  above  the  beard.  Was  it  only  an  illusion 
of  the  cheroot-smoke — or  had  one  of  those  crafty  eyes  winked? 

"When  you  sent  for  me,  Kun-mer,"  protested  de  Gys, 
"was  it  to  talk  of — relaxations?" 

"Of  what  else?  One  cannot  work  always.  And  relaxa- 
tions are  few  in  this  city.  There  is  but  tobacco,  and  sam-shu, 

and  banqueting,  and  the  black  smoke,  and But  how 

goes  your  trading  in  that  other  yamen,  Bearer  of  Sword 
Straight?" 

"He  fences  well,"  mused  Rene  de  Gys. 

"It  seems  you  know  everything,  Kun-mer." 

"Aye!  I  know  most  that  happens  in  this  city.  Of  the 
twelve  cases  of  stamped  silver  which  you  and  your  friends 
brought  to  Bu-ro,  eight  remain.  Of  the  other  four,  one  is 


242  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

with  Su-rah,  one  with  Hob,  one  with  Mun-nee,  and  one  with 
Pa-sif.  Yet  the  trade  still  tarries."  The  Mandarin  took  a 
cheroot,  leaned  back  among  his  cushions. 

"And  why — since  you  know  everything,  Kun-mer — did 
N'ging's  trade  tarry — even  though  he  gave  ten  thousand 
piastres  of  sycee  silver?" 

"Did  he  indeed  give  so  much  to  the  woman  Su-rah?"  said 
the  Mandarin. 

"To  her — or  to  some  other.  He  was  dying  when  he  told 
me  of  the  gift.  Perhaps  I  misunderstood  him." 

"Aa."  Ensued  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sputter  of 
their  cheroots,  the  steady  creak  of  the  punkah-cords.  "  Aa." 

When  Kun-mer  next  spoke  de  Gys  noticed  a  change  in  the 
low  voice:  the  guttural  Kwan-hwa  seemed  to  hiss  like  a 
snake. 

"You  will  do  better  to  trade  with  me  than  with  that  other 
yamen,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight." 

"Yet  N'ging  failed  in  his  trading  with  you,  Kun-mer." 

"N'ging  lied  to  me.     You  also,  if  you  lie  to  me,  will  fail." 

"Give  him  the  point,"  mused  Rene  de  Gys. 

"N'ging  promised  you  the  women  of  the  Bloo  Loy — all  the 
women  of  the  Bloo  Loy,  Kun-mer.  He  would  have  kept  his 
promise  had.  you  kept  yours." 

"He  lied  to  me  about  the  Flower." 

"I  do  not  deal  in  lies,  Kun-mer." 

"Then,  mayhap  we  can  trade  together,  Bearer  of  Sword 
Straight." 

"On  what  terms?" 

"My  terms,"  said  Kun-mer,  and  fell  silent.  After  a  long 
pause,  he  asked:  "This  Flower — is  it  known  in  your  country?" 

"No." 

"Aa."  Kun-mer 's  cheroot  had  gone  out;  he  re-lit  it, 
taking  obvious  pleasure  in  the  kindling  of  the  safety  match. 
"Aa." 

"What  is  in  his  mind?"  mused  Rene  de  Gys,  and  his  teeth 
bit  deep  to  the  sodden  cheroot  butt:  for  now  it  seemed  to 
Rene  de  Gys  that  the  fate  of  his  countrymen  hung  on  his 
handling  of  one  man. 


CUNNING  OF  KUN-MER  243 

"Listen — and  answer."  The  Mandarin  spoke  slowly. 
"You,  like  N'ging,  come  only  for  the  Flower?" 

"Even  so." 

"The  women  of  the  Bloo  Loy,  being  white,  you  do  not 
need?" 

"Are  they  all  white,  Kun-mer?" 

"Both  they  and  their  men." 

"Proof  at  last!"  thought  de  Gys.    "Proof!" 

"And  you  will  give  me  the  eight  cases  of  silver?"  continued 
the  Mandarin. 

"The  cases  are  not  mine  to  give,  Kun-mer.  They  belong 
to  the  White  Tiger." 

"The  White  Tiger  shall  be  satisfied.  I  will  give  of  the 
black  smoke  three  barges,  and  two  pots  of  eagle  wood  essence 
for  his  Excellency  Pu-yi." 

De  Gys  pretended  to  hesitate:     "It  is  little  enough." 

"It  is  the  most  that  I  will  give.  Remember,  Bearer  of 
Sword  Straight,  the  black  smoke  is  no  more  mine  than  the 
silver  is  thine.  The  one  belongs  to  the  People,  the  other  to 
the  Tong." 

And  again  it  seemed  to  the  Frenchman  that  Kun-mer  must 
have  winked! 

"So  be  it,  then.  Three  bargeloads  of  the  black  smoke  and 
two  pots  of  the  eaglewood  essence."  De  Gys  considered  a 
full  minute.  "And  what  of  the  Flower,  Kun-mer?" 

"Is  the  Flower  worth  more  than  the  black  smoke?"  asked 
the  Mandarin;  and  he  leaned  forward  eagerly  for  the  reply. 

"Who  shall  say?     Our  friend  N'ging— 

"Our  friend  N'ging  was  a  great  liar,  Bearer  of  Sword 
Straight.  To  me  he  told  that  the  Flower  was  of  little  value. 
Yet,  being  dead,  he  sends  three  other  Bloo  Loy  to  pro- 
cure it." 

They  eyed  each  other,  and  de  Gys  wondered,  "How  did 
Kun-mer  know  N'ging  was  a  white  man?" 

"Therefore" — the  Mandarin's  expressionless  face  allowed 
itself  the  ghost  of  a  smile — "  I  will  take  of  the  profits  on  the 
Flower  one  fifth  part,  and  for  this,  I  will  allow  to  you  and 
your  friends  choice  of  three  young  wives  from  my  yamen." 


244  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"You  will  provide  escort  to  the  place  of  the  Flower, 
coolies  for  the  carrying  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"I  will  provide  all  things  needful,  Bearer  of  Sword 
Straight.  Now  it  is  for  you  to  consider  the  offer."  And 
Kun-mer  leaned  back  once  more  among  his  cushions. 

Now  de  Gys  thought,  "If  I  accept  too  quickly,  he  will  sus- 
pect. I  must  play  with  him  awhile." 

"Three  young  wives  are  little  enough  for  men  such  as  we 
are,  Kun-mer!" 

"Have  you  then  no  wives  in  your  own  country?" 

"No — we  be  all  three  unmarried." 

"That  is  very  strange." 

"Yet  I  speak  truth." 

"Aa."  The  Mandarin  blinked  at  the  punkah.  "Aa. 
N'ging  must  have  had  many  wives.  .  .  .  Shall  we  say 
six  wives,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight — six  wives — all  young — 
and  all  beautiful?" 

And  on  that  basis,  after  some  more  haggling,  those  two 
settled  their  trade. 


Summoned  by  Kun-mer's  hand-clap  a  female  satellite 
brought  sam-shu  and  scarlet  mangosteens  on  plates  of  scarlet 
Satsuma-work.  They  drank  to  their  trading;  it  seemed  to 
de  Gys  that  Kun-mer  was  well  pleased;  the  formal  "you"  of 
his  Kwan-hwa  gave  way  to  the  "thou"  of  friendship. 

"Thou  wilt  smoke  again,  friend?  For  there  is  much  still 
remaining  to  be  discussed  between  us." 

De  Gys  took  another  cheroot,  let  his  eyes  wander  curiously 
round  that  vast  blood-red  apartment.  Mentally,  he  crossed 
himself — for  the  place  looked  evil,  and  Kun-mer  in  his 
scarlet  robes  might  have  been  the  devil  himself. 

"Art  thou  of  the  government  in  thine  own  country?  "  asked 
the  Mandarin,  draining  his  fifth  thimbleful  of  rice-wine. 

"Nay.     I  am  a  soldier." 

"Thou  art  too  wise  for  a  soldier.  And  my  heart  warms 
to  thee  for  thy  wisdom.  Hast  thou  any  plans  for  the  pro- 
curing of  this  Flower?" 


CUNNING  OF  KUN-MER  245 

"As  a  soldier,"  said  Rene de  Gys,  "it  seems  to  me  prudent 
that  we  should  first  spy  out  the  land.  Would  it  be  possible, 
Kun-mer,  to  send  us  three  alone  into  the  country  of  the  Bloo 
Loy " 

"The  Bloo  Loy,  if  rumour  speaks  truth,  are  very  warlike," 
said  the  Mandarin;  and  de  Gys'  heart  leaped  at  the  knowl- 
edge. "Nevertheless,  I  dare  not  send  many  men  against 
them.  Whatsoever  is  done  must  be  done  secretly." 

"Thou  hast  many  friends  among  Them  of  the  Bow,  Kun- 
mer." 

"And  a  few  enemies!  That  Keo  is  a  stubborn  fellow — and 
no  ally  to  me  after  this  day  in  the  Stadium.  Among  the 
Council  also  I  have  enemies.  Does  the  woman  Su-rah 
speak  of  me  as  her  friend?" 

The  Frenchman  laughed:  a  fruity  chuckle,  deep  in  the 
throat.  "Nay,  Kun-mer." 

"May  the  blessings  of  Mahl-tu  be  taken  from  her."  The 
Mandarin  raised  himself  from  his  cushions.  "May  she  grow 
withered  as  the  chief  wife  of  Veeb.  Were  it  not  for  her  and 
Pa-sif  I  should  not  need  thy  help  in  this  affair.  .  .  . 
But  listen,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight,  while  I  tell  thee  how 
matters  stand  in  the  Council — for  this  affects  our  plans." 

"We  progress,"  thought  Rene  de  Gys.  He  loosened  his 
harness,  for  the  sam-shu  made  him  sweat  despite  the  punkahs, 
and  listened,  all  ears. 

"The  government  of  the  common  people,"  began  Kun-mer, 
"  is  easy.  Give  them  to  eat — and  if  they  disobey,  kill  them. 
But  the  government  of  a  council  is  not  easy.  Since  each 
man  of  a  council  thinks  himself  wiser  than  his  fellows.  And 
mandarins  cannot  kill  mandarins,  for  then  the  people  lose 
faith  and  grow  disobedient.  Are  these  things  so  in  thy 
country,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight?" 

"I  told  thee  I  was  not  of  the  government,"  countered 
Rene  de  Gys. 

"Thou  art  fortunate.  But  I,  being  of  the  government, 
must  needs  consider  these  things — especially  in  this  matter  of 
the  Bloo  Loy.  Thou  knowest  that  there  is  a  treaty  between 
us  and  them?" 


246  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Akiou  said  something  of  it." 

"It  is  a  very  old  treaty,"  Kun-mer  smiled.  "But 
Su-rah  makes  much  pretext  of  it  at  the  Council  meetings. 
Pa-sif  also,  since  Pa-sif  gives  way  to  Su-rah  in  all  questions — 
for  reasons  thou  mayst  guess.  Veeb,  being  much  in- 
fluenced by  his  old  wife,  supports  Pa-sif.  If  I  move  to  send 
Them  of  the  Bow  against  the  Bloo  Loy,  these,  with  See- 
bohm,  and  La'nsbir,  who,  being  old  have  little  need  of  new 
wives,  will  vote  against  me,  pretending  that  it  is  not  right  to 
break  treaties.  Shor,  who  is  a  windy-belly,  will  talk  now  on 
one  side  now  on  the  other.  Hob,  Kroo,  and  Mun-nee  care 
principally  for  silver:  from  them  is  no  help  in  these  matters. 
And  Ram-sa  is  a  traitor.'* 

"Yet" — now  the  smile  on  the  yellow  countenance  spread 
itself  to  quiet  certainty — "  if  I  could  but  bring  the  women  of 
the  Bloo  Loy  speedily  and  without  much  bloodshed  to  City 
Bu-ro,  then,  I  think,  all  these — saving  only  Su-rah — would 
acclaim  my  wisdom." 

Kun-mer  ceased  speaking,  and  de  Gys,  concealing  the  rage 
in  his  heart,  played  his  trump  card. 

"Then  my  plan  must  be  tried,  Kun-mer.  First,  we  three 
will  spy  out  the  land.  Afterwards,  when  we  return,  thou 
canst  send  an  expedition." 

The  Mandarin  tugged  thoughtfully  at  his  moustaches. 
"But  if  thou  dost  not  return,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight.  If 
thou  and  thy  friends  be  taken  prisoners  or  slain  by  the  Bloo 
Loy.  What  then?  And  even  if  ye  return  safely,  what  of 
Su-rah?" 

"I  fear  no  woman,  Kun-mer." 

"  Then  thou  art  not  so  wise  as  I  first  thought  thee.  Nay 
—thy  plan  is  only  half  good.  Hear  another!  From  City 
Bu-ro  to  Quivering  Stone  is  ten  days'  journey.  But  Nak, 
being  swifter  than  a  man,  might  carry  thee  in  three."  Kun- 
mer's  voice  quickened,  as  though  thought  outstripped  words. 
"Three  days  to  Quivering  Stone — a  day  and  a  night — three 
days  for  return.  In  ten  more,  if  the  news  be  good,  a  company 
of  the  bowmen.  Aye,  that  is  best." 

"Thou  speakest  in  riddles,  Kun-mer." 


CUNNING  OF  KUN-MER  247 

"Yet  the  plan  is  simple.  Listen!  If  ye  three  go  alone 
and  one  brings  back  word,  Su-rah  will  suspect.  But  if  I 
send  other  trusty  ones — and  ye  three  remain  among  the 
Bloo  Loy  while  these  bring  back  word — then  Su-rah  will 
suspect  nothing." 

And  the  Mandarin  went  on  to  detail  his  plan :  how  it  must 
be  given  out  that  the  three  would  leave  with  the  opium 
barges  for  Outer  Gate,  how  Nak  and  the  trusty  ones  must 
meet  them  secretly  at  Arrow  Quays,  how  they  must  send 
back  word — in  Kwan-hwa  writing — of  the  numbers  of  the 
Bloo  Loy,  their  weapons,  their  fortifications,  their  plans  for 
repelling  an  attack. 

"These  things,  ye  three — being  also  Bloo  Loy — should 
learn  easily,"  explained  Kun-mer. 

"Good!"  thought  Rene  de  Gys.  "Bigrement  6on."  He 
poured  himself  more  rice-wine.  Everything  seemed  so  easy 
— so  uncannily  easy.  The  yellow  man  in  the  blood-red 
robes  was  only  a  savage  after  all.  There  were  no  brains 
under  that  saffron  skull-cap — only  cunning,  low  cunning, 
useless  against  French  reason,  French  education. 

"Thou  art  wiser  than  I,  Kun-mer."  One  vast  hand 
caressed  the  red  beard,  the  other — conscious  of  strain — 
fidgeted  with  sword-hilt.  "Tell  me,  therefore,  what  of  the 
opium?  Will  it  await  our  return  at  Outer  Gate?" 

"Nay.  The  caravan  has  tarried  overlong  already.  It 
can  return  in  time  for  the  transport  of  the  Flower." 

Now  slumbering  suspicions  awoke  to  new  life  in  the 
Frenchman's  brain.  Was  this  the  trap:  to  send  away  the 
caravan,  the  opium;  to  lure  the  three  of  them  out  of  yellow- 
island-country  into  the  country  of  the  Flower  Folk?  And 
there  to  murder  them,  quietly,  without  trace,  among  the 
other  men  of  the  Bloo  Loy.  Eh  bien — the  risk  must  be 
taken. 

"  Thou  art  sure  N'ging's  dwarf  will  return  for  us,  Kunmer  ?  " 

"Either  he  or  some  other.  The  White  Tiger  does  not 
desert  his  friends." 

Said  de  Gys,  after  a  ruminative  pause:  "I  understand, 
Kun-mer.  And  when  shall  we  three  leave  Bu-ro?" 


248  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

For  a  full  minute  the  Mandarin  contemplated  his  guest. 
Then  he  spoke  slowly,  as  a  man  who  has  decided  weighty 
matters : 

"Three  nights  hence  is  Night  of  Judgment.  It  were  a 
reproach  to  Them  of  the  Bow  should  ye  three  leave  Bu-ro 
while  Skelvi  is  yet  virgin  of  blood.  But  after  Bearer  of 
Skelvi  has  taken  his  reward — which  will  be  the  blood  of 
Ha-co"  ("  Tonerre  de  Dieu,"  thought  the  Frenchman,  "he  has 
answered  the  Colonel's  question :  this  must  be  the  big  killing 
of  which  Akiou  told  us")  "when  They  of  the  Bow  are  busy  at 
their  work  in  Great  Stadium,  then  I  will  send  word  that  the 
barges  are  ready  loaded  on  the  Klee.  Ye  three  and  your 
servant  will  slip  away  unnoticed  from  the  feast;  and  before 
dawn  Nak  and  the  trusty  ones  shall  be  at  Arrow  Quays." 

"  But  if  we  depart  thus,  secretly  and  in  haste,  the  woman 
Su-rah  will  suspect." 

"Neither  Su-rah  nor  the  friends  of  Su-rah  will  suspect — 
till  it  be  too  late — that  ye  go  to  Quivering  Stone.  There  is 
much  sam-shu  drunk  on  Night  of  Judgment;  the  open  lamp 
burns  in  many  yamens." 

"Thou  art  very  wise,  Kun-mer." 

"Aye.  I  am  very  wise."  With  a  self-satisfied  smile  the 
Mandarin  lay  back  among  his  cushions;  and  de  Gys,  sensi- 
tive to  the  etiquette  of  Bu-ro,  rose  up  from  his  stool. 

"A  satellite  will  accompany  thee  to  Great  Steps,  Bearer 
of  Sword  Straight." 

"I  thank  thee,  Kun-mer.  May  our  trade  prosper."  The 
Frenchman  tightened  his  harness,  took  helmet,  and,  saluting 
Kun-mer  with  raised  arm,  clanked  his  way  towards  the  cur- 
tain which  invisible  hands  held  aside  for  him.  Looking  back 
across  the  scarlet  luxury  of  that  vast  apartment,  he  caught  a 
last  glimpse  of  the  saffron  skull-cap,  raised  like  a  cobra's 
head  among  the  blood-red  cushions. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIRST 

Judgment  Night 

WHEN  de  Gys  reported  his  conversation  with  Kun- 
mer,  even  the  Long'un  admitted  that  they  were  at 
last  on  solid  ground.  ^ 

"Your  countrymen  or  not,"  said  the  Long'un,  "these 
Flower  Folk  are  white.  It  is  therefore  our  duty  to  rescue 
them.  Always  presuming  that  they  wish  to  be  rescued." 

"Small  doubt  of  that,"  trumpeted  de  Gys.  The  nearing 
prospect  of  escape  from  Bu-ro  fired  all  his  imagination. 
Faith  burned  in  him.  He  could  almost  see  those  "Flower 
Folk,"  almost  hear  them  explaining — in  that  quaint  old 
French  of  Melie's — the  chances  which  had  marooned  their 
great-grandparents  on  the  inhospitable  confines  of  Harinesia. 
They  would  fall  at  his  feet;  they  would  kiss  his  hands;  they 

would "The  devil  take  these  three  days  of  waiting,"  he 

grumbled.  "Surely  They  of  the  Bow  can  do  their  killing 
without  us." 

But  on  that  point  de  Gys  met  scepticism.  He  had  mis- 
understood Kun-mer,  said  Dicky.  The  blood  of  Ha-co  must 
be  symbolical — some  special  sacrifice — a  white  goat  to  the 
spirit  of  Ko-nan  or  a  capon  for  Mahl-tu  (they  had  seen  such 
a  sacrifice  during  their  stay  in  the  forest).  And  Beamish 
supported  Dicky. 

"It's  absurd,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish.  "The  Harinesians 
aren't  savages.  In  their  way,  they're  a  highly  civilized 
community." 

"So  you  told  us — that  evening  you  got  tight  on  sam-shu" 
drawled  Dicky. 

"  You  needn't  chip  a  fellow.  How  was  I  to  know  that  their 
beastly  rice-wine  would  make  me  intoxicated?  I  don't  like 

249 


250  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

the  Harinesians  any  more  than  you  do,  Long'un,  but  I  have 
to  admit  to  myself  that  their  system  of  government  is,  to  a 
certain  extent,  socialized.  They  have,  for  instance,  no 
capitalists;  their  agricultural  development  seems,  from  a 
practical  point  of  view — mind  you,  I'm  not  defending  it 
aesthetically — quite  remarkable.  Their  laws,  if  harsh,  are  at 
any  rate  respected.  And  their  policy  of  State-trading — if 
one  could  only  get  rid  of  the  ingrained  corruption  which 
appears  inevitable  throughout  the  East — is  almost  exactly 
that  laid  down  by  our  more  advanced  thinkers  at  home — 
by  men  like  Hobson,  the  Webbs,  and  Chiozza  Money." 

To  which  Dicky  retorted  with  a  scornful,  "Bureaucracy, 
feminine  influence,  and  conscription  of  labour  included!"; 
agreeing,  nevertheless,  with  the  doctor's  verdict  that  "They 
may  enforce  the  death-penalty  for  certain  offences;  but  an 
organized  killing  such  as  de  Gys  suspects  is  impossible." 

The  Frenchman,  who  had  seen  stranger  ceremonies  in  his 
time,  did  not  prolong  the  argument. 


The  three  days  dragged;  giving  little  information,  much 
time  for  thought.  Akiou — "busy,"  as  he  informed  them, 
"with  relaxations" — came  seldom  to  their  cubicles,  never  to 
Banqueting  Place,  where  food  orgies  and  sam-shu  orgies 
continued,  where  talk — as  overheard  by  Dicky — was  all  of 
women.  "The  third  wife  of  Shor  says.  .  .  ."  "It  is 
rumoured  among  the  female  satellites  of  Ram-sa.  .  .  .'* 

De  Gys  still  visited  Su-rah.  In  her  savage  way  she 
seemed  to  love  him.  But  her  "You  will  not  abandon  me, 
my  King,"  sounded  at  times  more  like  a  threat  than  a  love- 
cry,  and  the  Frenchman,  who  cherished  few  illusions  about 
the  sex,  took  good  care  to  see  that  they  drank  their  rice-wine 
from  the  same  jar! 

Meanwhile,  though  no  word  came  from  Kun-mer  and  the 
other  Mandarins  ignored  their  existence,  the  three  perfected 
plans  for  instant  departure.  Food,  they  imagined,  would  be 
provided  by  the  "trusty  ones";  but  at  the  Long'un 's  sugges- 
tion they  visited  Main  Armoury — a  gloomy  cavern  hidden 


JUDGMENT  NIGHT  251 

away  below  the  floor  of  Banqueting  Place — and,  intimating 
their  desires  by  signs  to  the  trustful  runner-boy  in  charge, 
were  allowed  to  select  two  hunting-bows,  a  hundred  arrows, 
a  brace  of  moon-bladed  throwing-axes,  an  extra  sword,  and 
a  full  equipment,  long-bow  included,  for  Beamish.  This 
equipment  the  doctor,  true  to  his  pacific  principles,  refused; 
so  de  Gys  presented  it  to  Phu-nan,  instructing  him  to  con- 
ceal the  prize  till  further  orders. 

"One  never  knows,"  said  Rene  de  Gys.  "The  Flower 
Folk  may  be  short  of  weapons." 

So  they  waited :  De  Gys  eager,  the  Long'un  cautious,  and 
Beamish  in  a  state  of  mounting  excitement  which  he  could 
hardly  conceal.  For  now  all  those  visions  of  the  Flower 
which  should  make  him  famous,  and  of  the  country  of  the 
Flower  where  utmost  dreams  came  true,  blossomed  to  re- 
newed glory  in  Beamish 's  mind. 


Rene  de  Gys  stood  quaffing  his  morning  Puerh  at  the 
triangular  entrance  to  their  cubicles. 

Already  the  square  roof  of  sky  above  the  courtyard  glared 
blue  with  sunlight;  across  the  blue,  white  cloudlets  scudded 
for  a  sign  of  wind. 

"Do  we  start  to-night,  master?"  Phu-nan  looked  up 
anxiously  from  his  harness  burnishing. 

"Aye — to-night.  See  to  it  that  my  orders  are  not  for- 
gotten. What  are  my  orders,  Phu-nan?" 

"  When  the  masters  are  gone  to  the  Place  Stay-dum,  I  their 
servant  dress  myself  in  iron  clothes.  I  take  my  bow,  my 
two  axes,  my  sword.  I  wait  patiently  at  the  gate.  Seeing 
the  masters  come  out,  I  follow  them." 

"  It  is  good,  Phu-nan.     Do  not  fail  at  the  gate." 

The  Long'un,  accoutred  for  his  morning  stroll,  lounged 
out  into  the  courtyard.  Followed  Beamish,  sallow-faced 
behind  a  cheroot.  De  Gys  took  helmet,  and  the  three  set 
off. 

Issuing  from  First  Sally-port,  a  hot  wind  buffeted  them; 
clammed  the  doctor's  yellow  silk  trousers  against  thin 


252  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

shanks  as  they  made  for  Great  Stadium;  swept  sirocco-like 
across  the  red  sand  of  Fighting  Ground. 

"Damned  unpleasant,"  groused  the  Long'un,  shading  his 
eyes  from  the  driving  grit. 

Great  Stadium  was  deserted;  but  in  the  centre  of  Fighting 
Ground,  gaunt  and  black  against  the  scarlet  sand,  stood 
seven  enormous  wooden  crosses. 

"You  see?"  said  de  Gys. 

Below  each  cross  were  tripod  braziers  already  packed 
with  soaked  flare-cotton.  Round  the  crosses  and  the 
braziers  ran  a  square  of  hardwood  railing,  breast-high. 
Approaching,  they  saw  that  chains  dangled  from  the  rail- 
ing. 

"Some  game  or  other,"  suggested  the  Long'un — but  even 
as  he  made  the  suggestion  he  knew  the  truth. 

"Aye!     The  game  of  death,"  said  Rene  de  Gys. 

The  three  stood  for  a  long  time,  eyes  riveted  to  those 
ominous  structures.  Then,  without  a  word  said,  they  made 
for  Elephant-stables.  Every  morning  they  had  found  Nak 
in  Great  Stadium:  usually  he  sunned  himself  on  Fighting 
Ground;  sometimes,  coming  late,  they  discovered  him  feeding 
— a  white  mountain  in  the  cavernous  dark  behind  the  stone 
bars.  But  this  morning  they  could  find  no  trace  of  the 
elephant,  though  they  searched  the  cool,  garnished  gloom 
from  end  to  end. 

"Kun-mer  keeps  his  promise,"  decided  the  Frenchman. 
"Nak's  absence,  at  least,  is  a  good  sign." 

As  though  by  mutual  agreement  none  of  the  three  made 
any  further  comment  on  the  preparations  for  Judgment  Night. 
They  hurried  out  through  the  gateway,  continued  their  walk. 
Bu-ro,  even  for  that  early  hour,  seemed  unusually  empty. 
Every  now  and  then  a  bowman,  slinking  home  from  some 
clandestine  orgy,  would  raise  tired  arm  in  salute.  At  the 
base  of  Emperor's  Pyramid  half  a  company  of  naked  Quay- 
workers — Egg's  men — snored  in  the  lee  of  the  wind.  Below, 
Great  Steps  slanted  desolately  to  the  red  pillar  of  Mahl-tu. 
One  of  Mun-nee's  satellites,  black  robes  flapping  about  his 
loins,  was  wrestling  slow  way  from  West  Mooring  Platform 


JUDGMENT  NIGHT  253 

to  the  Storehouses.  Turning  for  home,  they  met  Akiou, 
still  in  yellow  undress. 

He  greeted  them:  "Hail,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight  and 
Bearer  of  Skelvi.  Much  wind  for  the  killing!" 

"What  is  this  Killing  of  which  thou  speakest?"  asked  de 
Gys. 

"Only  wait — and  thou  shalt  see,"  answered  the  Harinesian. 
"I  return  to  sleep.  The  Eating  begins  at  middle  day.  Bring 
your  arms  with  you — for  we  feast  late." 

"Charming  people,  mon  vieux"  said  the  Long'un,  as  they 
followed  Akiou  to  Barracks.  "But  if  they  expect  me  to  kill 
anybody  for  them,  they  make  a  serious  miscalculation." 

"It  will  not  do  to  offend  them,  Colonel." 

"There  are  limits,  de  Gys." 

"There  are  no  limits — in  the  game  of  the  white  against  the 
yellow." 

"If  I  must  kill — it  will  be  bowmen,  not  their  victims." 

"And  my  countrymen,  my  countrywomen,  Colonel? 
What  of. them  if  these  yellow  savages  turn  against  us?" 

By  now  they  had  reached  their  quarters.  Phu-nan  was 
still  busy  on  the  spare  equipment;  his  burnisher  clinked 
musically  in  the  stillness.  The  three  watched  him.  He 

burnished  well;  he  seemed  to  enjoy  his  work;  he They 

couldn't  think:  they  didn't  want  to  speak.  Eyes  avoided 
eyes.  Subconsciously,  each  saw  those  seven  crosses,  black 
above  wind-whipped  scarlet,  the  braziers  and  the  railings 
below.  What  happened  on  those  crosses?  Did  men  die  at 
those  chaine4  railings?  How  did  they  die?  Why  did  they 
die? 

So  they  waited,  hypnotized,  for  the  hour  of  Eating.  .  .  . 


The  moment  he  entered  Banqueting  Place  de  Gys  sensed 
the  worst.  Eating  had  not  yet  begun.  Upright  beside  their 
couches,  bows  high  in  salute,  the  archers  ringed  their  cap- 
tains. The  three  penetrated  the  mailed  circle,  clanked  way 
towards  Officers'  Dais.  It  seemed  to  de  Gys  that  the  sun- 
searchlights  of  the  gazeboes  threw  pools  of  blood  to  the  red 


254  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

marble  floor — as  though  they  waded  through  those  bloody 
pools.  .  .  . 

Akiou,  fully  panoplied,  sword  in  hand,  his  brother  officers 
ranged  by  his  side,  greeted  them  first  in  Kwan-hwa;  then, 
turning  to  the  archers,  in  Harinesian. 

"Hail,  Bearer  of  Sword  Straight;  hail,  merchant,  lover  of 
rice- wine;  hail  above  all  to  thee,  Bearer  of  Great  Bow  Skelvi. 
I,  Akiou,  and  the  company  of  my  command  greet  thee  and 
the  bow.  Thy  bow  is  still  virgin  of  blood;  but  ere  the  sun 
rise  again  it  shall  be  virgin  no  more." 

De  Gys  answered,  "We  thank  thee,  Akiou." 

Ath,  senior  of  the  captains,  stepped  forward,  "Let  us 
sing,"  said  Ath.  "Let  us  sing  in  honour  of  Skelvi.  Let 
us  sing  the  blood-song  for  Great  Bow  Skelvi."  And  he  be- 
gan: 

"  West — west — west.  The  gods  came  out  of  the  sunrise.  Do 
the  gods  live?" 

"Nay — nay — nay  /" — the  chorus  crashed  from  six  hundred 
throats — "the  gods  are  dead.9'  It  mounted,  ring  on  ring  of 
sound,  to  bronze  gallery,  to  Cupola  Dome.  "  We  slew  them 
with  the  bow.  West — west — west,  they  went.  Into  the  sun- 
set."  Cupola  Dome  crashed  back  the  sound.  "  The  sunset 
is  red  with  the  blood  of  the  gods." 

"  Socialists ! "  thought  the  Long'un.  He  leaned  on  his  bow, 
negligently.  His  face  alone  among  those  clamorous  faces 
seemed  uncaring.  But  his  heart  had  oozed  down  into  his 
stomach;  lay  there  without  a  beat,  cold — deadly,  horribly 
cold.  .  .  . 

The  blood-song  ended.  Men  and  officers  dis-accoutred, 
lay  down  to  feast.  It  was  the  same  bestial  orgy:  runner- 
boys  followed  runner-boys,  endlessly;  dish  followed  dish  till 
Banqueting  Place  stank  with  the  reek  of  food. 

It  came  to  the  Long'un  that  he  had  turned  hog,  that  he  lay 
with  other  hogs,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  hogs,  among 
foul  and  blood-stained  straw.  Their  bodies  were  hog-bodies, 
but  their  faces  were  the  faces  of  men.  They  gobbled  at  him. 
The  noise  of  their  gobbling  filled  his  ears.  And  they  were  all 
gobbling  flesh,  human  flesh.  .  .  . 


JUDGMENT  NIGHT  255 

"You  are  very  silent,  friend,"  said  the  voice  of  Rene  de 
Gys. 

Long'un  pulled  himself  together.  "I  wish  to  goodness 
they'd  bring  the  sam-shu" 

"I,  too.     You  are  upset,  Colonel?" 

"  Upset !  They  expect  me  to  kill  somebody — in  cold  blood. 
I  won't  do  it.  Be  damned  if  I'll  do  it." 

"Why  not?"  De  Gys  glanced  round  the  semi-circle  of 
silent  satiate  faces.  "I  could  kill  them  all." 

"So  could  I— in  fair  fight." 

Sam-shu  came  at  last;  toasting  began.  The  Long'un 
drank  with  Akiou,  with  Keo,  with  Buk,  with  Mi-kwi,  with 
Ath  and  Sen-na;  toasted  them  back.  Beamish,  who  had 
sworn  off  rice-wine,  noticed  that  his  cheeks  were  already 
hectic.  He  signalled  for  more  wine.  "Easy  on,  Long'un." 
"Go  to  hell,  doctor.  .  .  ."  De  Gys  said  nothing. 

"I'm  getting  better,"  thought  Dicky.  "After  another 
three  rounds  my  brain  will  begin  to  function."  He  rested 
himself  on  his  elbow;  looked  down  from  the  dais;  saw  that — 
contrary  to  custom — runner-boys  were  circulating  their  wine- 
jars  among  the  men.  It  still  lacked  an  hour  to  twilight. 

"Easy  with  the  wine,"  ventured  de  Gys. 

Dicky's  brain  cleared;  heart,  mounting  suddenly  from  its 
cold  lair  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  resumed  regular  beat.  He 
toasted  on — steadily — thimbleful  after  thimbleful — Akiou, 
Keo,  Buk,  Mi-kwi,  Ath,  Sen-na — Sen-na,  Ath,  Mi-kwi, 
Buk,  Keo,  Akiou.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  he  realized  that 
they  were  not  talking,  that  none  of  the  men  were  talking. 
.  .  .  It  grew  darker  in  Banqueting  Place.  .  .  .  Saffron 
shadows  of  the  runner-boys  padded  noiselessly  through 
gloom.  .  .  .  Why  this  uncanny  silence?  Usually,  two 
jars  of  wine  provoked  a  quarrel — three,  violent  altercations 
— four.  .  .  .  He  never  remembered  four.  .  .  .  And 
to-day  they  must  have  had  seven.  .  .  . 

Then,  looking  sideways  at  Ath,  the  Long'un  understood. 
All  these  men,  these  hogs  of  men,  were  dumb  with  excitement. 
Drink  couldn't  move  them;  nothing  could  move  them.  They 
swilled — and  they  waited.  Excitement  froze  them  to  their 


256  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

couches;  excitement  froze  their  eyes.  Once  before  the  Long'un 
had  seen  that  excitement — in  the  eyes  of  a  Hun.  He  remem- 
bered those  eyes — remembered  firing  between  them.  .  .  . 

"  Socialists ! "  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  Socialists !  Made 
in  Prussia!" 

The  pad  of  a  runner-boy's  feet  mounting  the  dais  behind 
him  banished  thought.  The  runner-boy  was  bending  over 
de  Gys;  he  dropped  a  little  strip  of  palmetto-leaf  on  to  the 
Frenchman's  couch.  De  Gys  strained  his  eyes  to  the  leaf. 

"It  is  from  Su-rah." 

"What  does  she  say?" 

"Wait — I  decipher."  A  Jense  pause.  "We  are  lost, 
Colonel.  Listen !  'Come  instantly.  The  White  Tiger  calls. 
Kun-mer  has  lied  to  you."' 

"  It's  a  trap,  de  Gys."     They  lay  head  to  head,  whispering. 

"I  think  not.     She  loves  me — and  Kun-mer  is  a  devil." 

"You  will  go?" 

"I  must.     Will  they  notice,  think  you?" 

"Only  if  you  take  your  harness." 

Beamish,  puzzled  at  the  colloquy,  saw  de  Gys  rise  from  his 
couch,  pick  up  Sword  Straight,  and  stroll  nonchalantly  from 
the  dais. 


Clear  of  Banqueting  Place,  de  Gys  flew  as  a  rabbit  from 
weasels.  Except  for  the  kilt  round  his  middle  he  was  stark 
naked;  his  left  fist  gripped  the  sword-hilt.  He  took  the  sand 
of  their  courtyard  in  one  leap;  made  the  corridors,  the  Sally- 
port. Head  up,  sword  up,  he  sprinted  for  the  propylon, 
rounded  it,  dived  into  Su-rah 's  alley,  tore  for  the  postern- 
gate.  The  postern-gate  stood  open.  He  paused  a  second, 
panting;  shifted  sword  to  sword-hand.  Hot  wind  buffeted 
his  shoulders,  jingled  the  kilt  against  Jhis  loins.  Stealthily 
he  dived  from  the  wind.  .  .  . 

No  satellite  waited.  He  lifted  the  first  curtain  with  his 
hand,  felt  for  the  second  with  his  point,  found  it,  found  him- 
self in  the  forecourt.  He  raced  across  the  forecourt.  The 
fountain  was  not  playing;  no  lights  burned  in  the  gazeboes. 


JUDGMENT  NIGHT  257 

Three  at  a  bound  he  hurled  himself  up  the  stairs.  And  still 
— never  a  light.  .  .  . 

The  passage  to  the  tiring-room  puzzled  him.  He  groped 
his  way  through,  felt  the  curtain  belly  against  his  sword- 
point,  burst  in.  ...  Darkness.  .  .  .  His  forehead 
struck  one  of  the  lamps;  he  stubbed  his  left  foot  against  the 
arm-rack  .  .  .  He  heard,  from  behind  the  hangings,  one 
low  whistle,  instantly  suppressed. 

Could  it  have  been  a  signal  to  him?  Or  a  signal — to  some- 
one in  ambush — of  his  coming?  Should  he  call  to  her?  He 
listened  again,  ear  against  the  curtain.  He  could  hear 
breathing. 

"Pah!  women!"  muttered  Rene  de  Gys;  and  tearing 
apart  the  curtains,  strode  forward.  .  .  . 

They  were  on  him  before  he  could  think.  Hands — little 
hands — little,  hot,  eager  hands — gripped  at  his  knees,  at  his 
ankles,  at  his  sword-arm.  Arms — warm,  naked  arms — looped 
his  neck,  his  eyes.  Bodies  clung  to  him.  He  could  hear  the 
women  gasping  breathlessly  as  they  grappled  him.  They  were 
bringing  him  down.  They  were  tearing  at  his  beard,  at  his 
shoulders.  One  of  them  had  sprung  upon  his  shoulders.  .  .  . 

He  began  to  fight  with  them.  He  freed  his  left  hand;  tore 
their  arms  from  his  eyes.  He  jerked  himself  upright,  buck- 
ing the  woman  from  his  shoulders  as  a  horse  bucks  its 
rider.  She  toppled  backwards,  screaming.  He  knew  himself 
panicked He  tried  to  lift  his  sword-arm  without  hurt- 
ing the  women.  Their  hands  clung  to  his  arm;  their  hands 
clung  to  his  naked  sword.  .  .  . 

He  could  just  see.  He  had  freed  himself  to  the  waist. 
He  stood  waist  deep  in  writhing  bodies.  He  began  to  move 
forward,  fearful  for  his  sword,  dragging  the  bodies  with  him. 

Suddenly  he  heard  Su-rah's  voice;  saw  her;  saw  her  spring 
at  him,  a  dagger  in  either  hand;  wrenched  up  his  sword-arm; 
jumped  sideways  as  she  struck.  .  .  . 

"You  yellow  hell-cat!"  panted  de  Gys.  She  came  at  him 
again,  fearless  of  the  sword-point.  He  swept  her  legs  from 
under  her  with  the  flat  of  his  blade;  sprang  backwards  as  she 
fell. 


258  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

In  front,  Su-rah!  Behind,  Su-rah's  women!  The  women 
were  between  him  and  the  tiring-room — between  him  and 
safety.  Must  he  pierce  his  way  through? 

Calm,  the  deadly  calm  of  the  trained  fencer,  came  back  to 
him.  Su-rah  was  struggling  to  her  feet.  He  threw  himself 
on  guard.  .  .  . 

Su-rah  made  her  rush — but  even  as  she  came  for  him,  tiny 
daggers  high,  eyes  blazing  in  the  gloom,  point  jerked  upwards 
from  the  throat.  .  .  . 

She  ran  in  under  the  sword.  He  met  her  face  with  a 
straight  left-handed  buffet,  staggered  her,  felt  one  dagger 
strike  home,  the  other  stab  harmlessly  against  his  mailed 
thigh.  Then  he  saw  her  fall,  saw  the  dagger-hilt  in  his  fore- 
arm, ran  for  the  gazebo;  heard  the  women  howling  at  his 
heels;  sprang  for  the  twilight;  reached  it;  gripped  ledge  with 
his  left  hand;  swung  up — through;  felt  stone  against  his  belly; 
loosed  grip;  and  slid  somehow  down  the  slanting  wall  on  to 
the  flat  roof  of  Elephant-stables. 

"Thunder  of  God!"  thought  Rene  de  Gys.  "How  did  I 
accomplish  that  glissade  without  losing  my  sword."  He 
examined  his  blade;  recognized,  to  his  horror,  that  it  dripped 
blood  from  hilt  to  point.  "I  must  have  wounded  one  of 
them/'  he  thought.  "May  the  Virgin  forgive  me !"  Then  he 
remembered  his  own  wound.  The  dagger  was  still  in  his 
forearm:  he  drew  the  dagger  out  with  his  teeth;  spat  it  from 
him. 

Re-action  set  in.  The  wound,  triflingest  of  punctures, 
might  be  poisoned.  The  wound  must  be  sucked  at  once.  He 
squatted  down,  close  to  the  wall;  set  lips  to  flesh;  sucked  and 
sucked  at  it.  Sucking,  he  looked  down  over  the  muscles 
of  his  forearm  into  the  wind-swept  Fighting  Ground. 

It  was  almost  pitch  dark  in  Fighting  Ground;  but  the 
little  de  Gys  saw  sufficed  to  drive  away  all  thought  of  his 
wound,  of  his  fight  with  the  women ! 


Runner-boys  had  brought  lamps  to  Banqueting  Place. 
The  faces  in  Banqueting  Place  were  no  longer  dumb,  the 


JUDGMENT  NIGHT  259 

eyes  no  longer  frozen.  They  howled  now,  those  faces;  they 
howled  the  blood-song.  And  the  eyes  in  the  faces  were 
fiends'  eyes  above  the  blue  glow  of  the  table-lamps. 

"What  is  going  to  happen?  Oh,  Long'un!  What  is  going 
to  happen?"  quavered  Beamish 's  voice. 

"You'll  see  soon  enough  what  your  yellow  brethren  are  up 
to,  doc!"  said  the  Long'un,  grimly.  At  Officers'  Dais  the 
captains  were  struggling  to  get  accoutred.  They  lurched 
between  the  couches,  and  the  runner-boys  lurched  after 
them — reaching  out  breast-plates,  helmets.  Empty  cups 
rolled  and  clinked  among  the  staggering  feet. 

"Hope  nothing's  happened  to  de  Gys,"  thought  the 
Long'un. 

Banqueting  Place  might  have  been  the  Pit  itself,  a  blue 
tumult  of  screeching  devils.  Yet  the  Long'un  looked  calm 
enough  as  he  rose  from  his  couch,  stepped  off  the  dais,  took 
greaves  and  sollerets,  donned  them,  reached  for  his  breast- 
plate. 

"  You'd  better  help  me  with  these  buckles,  doc.     Thanks." 

He  took  Skelvi,  strung  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Long'un?" 

"Nothing — yet."  He  looked  down  at  the  pile  of  de  Gys' 
harness,  at  de  Gys'  thro  wing-axes;  wished  to  God  that  de 
Gys  were  back;  saw  him  burst — huge  as  a  bear — through  the 
outer  ring  of  tables,  saw  the  blood  on  his  sword,  the  blood 
on  his  forearm. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  for  trouble,  mon  ami,"  began  the 
Long'un.  Then  he  noticed  his  friend's  face,  blue-white 
against  the  beard.  "  Your  wound's  bad,  let  the  doctor  see  to 
it." 

"My  wound's  nothing.  Kun-mer  has  not  lied  to  us. 
Help  me  with  my  harness." 

The  red  man  stood  stock-still,  speechless,  while  they  ac- 
coutred him,  while  Beamish  washed  his  hurt  with  spilled  rice- 
wine,  bound  it. 

"What  did  happen,  de  Gys?"  asked  the  Long'un. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  A  little  fight."  He  did 
not  dare  tell  the  Colonel  of  the  thing  he  had  seen  from  the 


260  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

roof '  of  Elephant-stables.  He  knew  the  Colonel.  The 
Colonel  would  go  crazy.  The  Colonel  would  fly  at  these 
howling  men — ruin  all  chances  of  rescuing  the  Flower  Folk. 
He  himself  was  nearly  crazy.  His  feet  itched  to  climb  the 
dais;  to  clear  the  dais  with  axe-blows.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  tumult  stilled  in  Banqueting  Place.  Only  from 
the  dais  came  gruntings,  "  Sznee — sznee,  trekvog."  Akiou, 
helmet  awry,  eyes  bloodshot,  lurched  down  to  them. 

"It  is  the  hour,"  whispered  Akiou.  "The  hour  of  the 
Big  Killing.  Hark  for  it!"  .  .  . 

Even  as  Akiou  spoke  they  heard  low  rumblings — rumblings 
that  mounted  to  a  roar — the  roar  of  the  elephant  conches  in 
Great  Stadium. 


It  seemed  to  Dicky  that  he  had  hardly  left  Banqueting 
Place.  He  could  only  vaguely  remember  Ath  and  Akiou 
gripping  him  by  the  arms,  the  mad  rush  from  Officers'  Dais, 
the  circle  of  bowmen  opening  out  to  let  them  pass,  a  loaded 
table  crashing  to  marble,  sputter  of  expiring  lamps,  black  of 
the  corridors,  men  flooding  the  corridors,  themselves  shot  like 
corks  through  the  bottle-neck  of  First  Sally-port,  themselves 
staggering  through  darkness  against  a  wind  that  nearly 
whipped  Skelvi  out  of  his  hand. 

But  somehow  he.still  gripped  Skelvi;  and  somehow  de  Gys 
and  Beamish  must  have  kept  pace  with  him,  for — though  it 
was  too  dark  in  Great  Stadium  to  see  their  faces — he  could 
hear  de  Gys  muttering,  "  Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu! — il  faut  le 
faire,"  and  the  flap-flap  of  Beamish 's  trousers  in  the  wind. 

Skelvi's  gut  sang  between  its  nocks  like  a  harp  string 
in  storm;  and  all  round  Skelvi  other  bows  sang  the  same 
deadly  song.  Sub-consciously  Dicky  knew  that  he  stood 
near  the  centre  of  Fighting  Ground,  that  he  and  Ath  and 
Akiou  were  the  grip  of  a  great  human  bow  whose  flexed  belly 
curved  forward  and  away  from  them,  clean  across  Fighting 
Ground  from  benches  to  benches.  He  knew,  too,  that  the 
benches  held  spectators.  But  he  could  see  nothing.  They 
might  have  been  in  the  void.  .  .  . 


JUDGMENT  NIGHT  261 

Horror  pinched  him  by  the  bowels,  turning  his  bowels  to 
water.  For  now,  near  and  high  across  the  void,  came  moans 
and  the  clank  of  chains;  and  now,  near  and  low  across  the 
void,  flickered  a  tiny  speck  of  scarlet  fire. 

And  Dicky  thought,  "They're  going  to  light  the  braziers. 
Merciful  God!  they're  going  to  light  the  braziers."  He  said: 
"Is  that  you,  de  Gys?"  De  Gys  answered:  "Yes — it  is  I.'* 
"Is  Beamish  there?"  "I'm  here,"  answered  Beamish.  He 
said :  "  We  must  fight  our  way  out.  Do  you  both  understand  ? 
We  must  fight  our  way  out."  Another  speck  of  fire  flickered 
in  the  void  ahead.  He  heard  Akiou's  bark,  "Be  silent"; 
then  de  Gys:  "Kun-mer  has  not  failed  us.  His  messenger  is 
already  here.  If  we  fight,  all  is  lost." 

And  suddenly,  down  the  whistle  of  the  void,  began  The 
Voices : 

"Take  heed,"  chanted  The  Voices.  "Take  heed,  men  and 
women  about  to  die  by  the  Bow.  Take  heed,  all  ye  who  have 
sinned  against  the  holy  system  of  Harinesia. 

"Take  heed,  Ha-co  first  to  die!  Take  heed  of  Skelvi, 
Ha-co  who  wouldst  not  bow  the  knee  to  the  sovereignty  of 
the  State,  Ha-co  who  plotted  to  bring  back  the  merchants, 
Ha-co  who  reviled  the  Mandarins  Veeb  and  Bo-smei,  Ha-co 
who  doubted  the  purity  of  Su-rah. 

"Take  heed,  ere  the  arrow  pierces,  all  ye  who  not  being 
Mandarins,  dared  to  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Mahl-tu :  all  ye 
who  scoffed  at  the  memory  of  Ko-nan. 

"Take  heed,  men  and  women  about  to  die  by  the  Bow. 
All  ye  who  planned  to  labour  for  yourselves  and  not  for 
Harinesia,  take  heed !  Take  heed ! !  Take  heed ! ! ! " 

Answered  One  Voice,  a  Voice  high  in  the  void:  "I  defy  you, 
Voices.  I,  Ha-co  son  of  Ha-co,  by  Nak,  symbol  of  force  and 
justice  and  by  the  individual  gods  who  are  older  than  Hari- 
nesia, I  defy  you." 

But  Dicky,  gripping  the  grip  of  Skelvi  as  a  drowning  man 
grips  the  life-line,  scarcely  heard  The  Voices  in  the  void.  He 
watched  the  lights,  the  tiny  scarlet  lights  multiplying  ahead. 
He  watched  the  lights  rising,  rising  slowly  to  the  shadows  of 
the  braziers.  He  watched  the  vague  shapes  between  the 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

lights.     He  felt  an  arrow  thrust  into  his  hand.     He  heard  de 
Gys  say:  "Shoot!  our  lives  hang  on  it." 

Before  Dicky  could  think  reply  flares  scarleted  the  void; 
and  near  above  the  flares  hung  scarlet  shapes  that  writhed 
and  shrieked  in  the  mounting  smoke;  and  near  about  the 
flares  the  scarlet  arch  of  the  arching  bows — devil-faces 
between — waited  on  the  will  of  Skelvi. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  Dicky  glimpsed  Akiou's  lifted 
sword  pointing  the  awful  mark;  the  open-mouthed  face 
beyond  the  sword-point,  the  black  beam  above  the  face :  for  a 
fraction  of  a  second  his  fingers  faltered  at  the  shaft.  Then 
Skelvi  twanged  and  the  arrow  flashed  up  in  crimson  to  its 
crimson  target.  .  .  . 

The  twanging  of  the  bows  that  had  waited  on  the  twang  of 
Skelvi,  the  whistle  of  their  six  hundred  shafts,  was  as  the 
clang  and  scream  of  the  sea  against  the  howl  and  whistle  of 
the  storm. 

"God!"  shrieked  Beamish's  voice.  "God!"  For  only 
Dicky,  half-fainting  on  de  Gys'  shoulder,  knew  that  the  first 
of  those  six  hundred  shafts  had  soared  harmless  above  its 
dreadful  target.  .  .  . 

*         *        *      *      * 

Phu-nan,  motionless  in  the  shadows  of  the  gateway,  saw  his 
master's  shape  enormous  against  the  light.  His  master  stag- 
gered as  he  followed  Kun-mer's  messenger;  the  Long  Ingrit 
also  staggered,  and  the  Little  Ingrit.  But  once  beyond  the 
gateway  they  staggered  no  longer — only  ran,  ran  like  men  who 
had  seen  the  White  Tiger.  Yet  none  pursued  them.  Why  did 
they  run?  It  was  silly  to  run  in  iron  clothes.  Phu-nan  in  his 
new  iron  clothes  could  hardly  keep  up  with  them.  And  besides, 
Phu-nan  wanted  to  look  back  at  the  red  fire  in  the  sky.  .  .  . 

The  red  fire  grew  behind  them  as  they  clattered  after  the 
messenger  down  Elephant-Path;  was  yet  flaring  when  they 
made  the  barges,  when  the  barges  made  Arrow  Quays.  And 
from  Nak's  howdah  they  saw  it  once  more,  faint  and  far  and 
crimson  across  the  plain. 

Still  speechless,  Beamish  pointed  to  the  distant  glow. 

w"So  much  for  State  Socialism,"  said  the  Long'un,  grimly. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SECOND 

In  which  the  three  adventurers  first  see  Quivering  Stone 

NAK  the  Elephant  hated  his  travelling  howdah.  The 
five  girths  galled  his  huge  belly;  the  curved  under- 
body,  the  long  bronze  struts,  pinched  his  back  and 
flanks;  the  driving-seat  support  weighed  heavy  as  an  iron  arch 
on  his  neck-muscles.  The  contraption,  made  in  old  days, 
was  in  two  portions :  forward,  facing  the  track  from  a  narrow 
platform,  sat  Nak's  runner-boy,  ankus  in  hand,  Kun-mer's 
"trusty  ones"  (two  under-sized  civilian  yellow  men) on  either 
side  of  him;  behind,  rode  the  adventurers  and  Phu-nan. 

Nak's  passengers  hated  that  howdah  almost  as  much  as 
Nak  himself.  Their  "  cabin,"  as  Beamish  insisted  on  calling  it, 
shook — even  when  Nak  walked — like  a  motor-boat  at  speed. 
Their  weapons,  hung  on  hooks  from  the  flat,  pole-supported 
roof,  swayed  and  clinked  incessantly.  The  leather  curtains, 
rotten  with  age,  afforded  no  protection  from  either  sun  or 
wind.  The  two  seats,  foul  and  worm-eaten,  faced  each  other 
across  Nak's  spine — so  that  de  Gys  and  the  Long'un,  balanc- 
ing weights,  knocked  knees  with  the  doctor  and  Phu-nan. 
As  for  the  floor — the  more  they  thought  about  its  condition 
the  more  their  naked  soles  yearned  for  a  foot-bath.  To 
complete  disillusionment,  Kun-mer's  "trusty  ones"  had 
brought  only  the  meagrest  ration  of  compressed  rice  and  a 
bundle  of  cheroots  "with  His  Transparent  Excellency's 
double-bowed  compliments." 

Still,  even  discomfort  had  compensation,  since  it  made 
them  forget  the  horrors  of  Judgment  Night. 

***** 
By  dawn  they  had  circled  the  city,  left  it  far  behind;  and 

263 


264  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

at  noon  they  made  First  Oasis — a  square  clump  of  cabbage 
palmettoes,  shading  two  derelict  block-houses  and  a  well  of 
brackish  water.  Here  de  Gys  first  noticed  the  pain  in  his 
forearm. 

Said  Beamish,  after  careful  inspection  of  a  tiny  puncture 
which  had  blackened  at  centre,  inflamed  at  the  edges,  "I'm 
afraid  a  good  deal  of  dirt  must  have  got  into  this."  He 
performed  some  rough  surgery  with  the  barb  of  a  hunting- 
arrow;  bound  a  leaf  over  the  incision.  Nak  knelt  to  be 
mounted,  and  they  continued  their  uncomfortable  journey. 

The  track  led  across  sun-parched  cactus-desert  infinitely 
monotonous.  Soon,  despite  the  rolling  of  the  howdah, 
Nak's  passengers  dozed.  But  the  elephant,  picking  his  way 
among  high  prickles,  had  begun  to  enjoy  himself.  This — 
Nak  knew — was  the  old  road  to  Quivering  Stone,  the  road  by 
which,  centuries  since,  he  had  led  the  herd  to  Bu-ro.  He  be- 
gan to  dream  of  his  calfhood,  of  the  forest  by  the  sea  where  he 
had  been  born;  and  so  dreaming,  broke  into  a  trot.  .  .  . 
Nak's  passengers  were  not  sorry  when  his  runner-boy  in- 
formed them  by  signs  that  they  neared  Second  Oasis! 

The  Long'un,  despite  grumbles  from  the  Harinesians,  in- 
sisted that  the  beast  should  be  off-howdahed  for  the  night, 
and  after  seeing  him  safely  moored  with  a  spare  girth  to  a 
palm-trunk,  ordered  Phu-nan  to  prepare  couches  in  the  block- 
house. For  this — the ' 'trusty  ones"  having  forgotten  to  bring 
bedding-pelts — they  commandeered  the  howdah-curtains. 

The  night  was  not  a  success.  Hunger  made  all  three 
sleepless:  de  Gys'  forearm  began  to  swell;  the  Harinesians  in 
the  neighbouring  compartment  snored  like  hogs;  and  Phu- 
nan,  using  de  Gys'  telescope  case  as  a  neck-pillow,  like  a 
grampus. 

Next  morning,  in  the  chill  of  a  tealess  dawn,  they  spent  a 
delightful  hour  coaxing  Nak  under  his  howdah-struts — a 
result  only  accomplished  by  the  Long'un's  extraordinary  and 
growing  influence  over  the  white  elephant's  better  nature. 

"He  adores  you — that  animal,"  said  de  Gys,  as  they  rolled 
out  of  the  Oasis  into  more  wilderness. 

Beamish  had  begun  to  be  very  anxious  about  de  Gys. 


QUIVERING  STONE  265 

The  man  seemed  curiously  listless;  his  pupils  dilated;  his 
voice  was  feeble,  his  temperature — the  doctor  judged — sub- 
normal. About  two  hours  after  sunrise  he  startled  both 
companions  by  an  attack  of  hysteria. 

"I'm  dying,"  he  told  them.  " But  you  must  go  on.  Prom- 
ise me  that,  when  I  am  dead,  you  will  go  on." 

"You're  not  going  to  die,  mon  vieux"  comforted  the 
Long'un.  But  de  Gys  refused  to  be  comforted:  he  knew  the 
worst — he  had  been  poisoned. 

"Absurd,"  said  Beamish. 

"I  know  more  about  Indo-Chinese  dangers  than  you,  doc- 
tor," countered  de  Gys.  "That  dagger" — he  lifted  his  arm, 
winced,  let  it  fall  on  his  knee — "had  been  dipped  in  antiaris 
toxicaria."  He  discoursed  for  ten  nervous  minutes  about  the 
antidotes  (all  unprocurable)  of  that  vegetable  poison — and 
relapsed  into  lethargy. 

"I  don't  like  the  look  of  him,"  whispered  Beamish. 


All  morning  de  Gys  drowsed;  all  morning  Nak  picked  his 
way  between  the  man- tall  cacti;  all  morning  the  Long'un  sat 
plunged  in  thought. 

"A  nice  business!"  thought  the  Long'un.  "If  anything 
happens  to  de  Gys,  we  can  shut  up  shop.  I  knew  no  good 
would  come  of  his  messing-about  with  that  Mandarinette." 
He  started  in  to  consider  what  he  should  do  if  anything  did 
happen  to  de  Gys.  "We'll  have  to  go  on,  I  suppose."  From 
that  thought  switched  to  the  Flower  Folk.  Who  were  the 
Flower  Folk,  anyway?  White  natives?  Or — miracle  of 
miracles — actual  descendants  of  the  original  French  fili- 
bustering expedition?  "Can't  believe  it's  true;  sounds  al- 
together too  much  of  a  fairy  tale,"  decided  the  Long'un.  He 
wrapped  an  arm  round  one  of  the  howdah-poles,  dozed  off. 

Beamish,  seeing  himself  unobserved  except  by  Phu-nan, 
made  a  quiet  movement  to  the  sleeve  of  his  coatee  and  drew 
out  the  missing  snuff-box.  The  box  had  been  empty  for 
months,  but  the  rare  cloying  scent  of  the  Flower  still  clung 
to  it;  and  Beamish,  sniffing  surreptitiously,  visioned  once 


266  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

again  that  second  country  of  his  dreams,  the  Ultimate 
Utopia. 

And  so  visioning,  it  came  to  Cyprian  Beamish  that  all 
their  journeying — so  far — had  been  symbolical,  as  it  were  a 
parable  of  humanity's  voyage  to  the  Golden  Land. 

He  saw  Melie  once  again;  but  now  M£lie  was  more  dream 
than  woman,  the  image  of  perfection  each  man  shrines  in  his 
heart.  (" Jolly  thought,"  quoth  Cyprian  Beamish,  and  went 
on  with  his  parable.)  Melie,  spirit  of  dying  youth,  had  led 
them  to  Mother  Mathurin,  spirit  of  age;  and  from  Mother 
Mathurin  they  had  extorted  youth's  secret,  sallied  forth  in 
quest  of  it.  To  further  that  quest,  they  had  shrunk  from  no 
adventure:  had  wrestled  with  Sin  (typified  by  Negrini),  with 
Race-prejudice  (had  they  not  "gone  yellow",  taken  a  brown 
man  for  comrade?),  with  Hunger  and  with  Thirst,  with 
Militarism  and  with  Mandarinism,  with  Torture  and  with 
Death.  And  now — now  that  they  had  won  their  way  through 
terror — triumph  loomed  very  near.  These  three  days  to 
Quivering  Stone  were  but  the  last  spiritual  preparation  for 
their  apofheosis.  .  .  . 

But  here,  as  always  with  Beamish's  dreams,  political 
opinions  started  in  to  confuse  simple  humanity.  He  looked 
back  on  Harinesia ! 

Harinesia,  as  Beamish  re-visioned  it,  was  no  longer  a  dread 
country  of  black  trees  and  black-stone  buildings  and  black- 
hearted men.  No!  Harinesia  was  the  East,  wiser  than  the 
stubborn  -West,  working  out  its  destiny  along  true  Socialistic 
lines.  Only,  in  Harinesia,  Socialism  had  been  slightly  mis- 
applied. 

"Nothing  wrong  with  the  system,  "mused  Cyprian  Beamish. 
"A  little  too  rigid,  perhaps.  That  must  be  Kun-mer's  fault. 
Some  of  the  other  mandarins  seem  sound  enough.  And  the 
common  people,  the  proletariat — those  dumb  fieldworkers 
and  transport-workers  I  saw,  those  bowmen  drilled  to 
acquiescence  by  harshest  discipline — have  character!  One 
can  tell  that  from  their  faces — no  need  to  speak  their  lan- 
guage. One  day  they  will  rise  against  Kun-mer  and  his 
captains." 


QUIVERING  STONE  267 

He  began  to  dream  of  revolution  in  Harinesia,  of  the 
"class-conscious  proletariat"  storming  Bu-ro,  putting  Kun- 
mer  and  Ath  and  Akiou  to  the  sword.  (Beamish,  it  will  be 
seen,  remained  true  to  type,  even  under  the  rare  cloying  in- 
fluence of  the  Flower:  as  a  British  International  Socialist  he 
found  nothing  incongruous  in  the  thought  of  other  nations 
wading  to  universal  love  through  universal  bloodshed.) 

Yes,  universal  love.  Harinesia  would  come  to  that  in 
the  end. 

"Jolly,"  muttered  Cyprian  Beamish,  "jolly  to  think  of  our 
yellow  brethren — arms  laid  aside — dancing  to  join  us  in  the 
Land  of  the  Flower." 

A  little  breeze  of  reality  blew  clear  the  mirror  of  his  dream- 
ing. Could  They  of  the  Bow — murderers,  eaters  of  flesh, 
and  bibbers  of  wine,  wage-slaves  and  worse  than  wage- 
slaves,  militarists  and  materialists — ever  attain  to  that 
Ultimate  Utopia? 

Perfume  of  the  purple  beans  blurred  reality.  "Why  not?" 
said  Cyprian  Beamish — and  he  looked  at  his  two  companions 
still  drowsing  away  the  noonday — "if  the  Long'un  and  de 
Gys,  Philistines,  men  of  blood  and  iron,  can  be  made  worthy." 
"But  perhaps,"  he  added  to  himself,  "they  are  not  worthy. 
Perhaps  de  Gys,  who  is  an  anti-socialist,  will  die  before  we 
make  Quivering  Stone.  Perhaps  it  is  only  because  of  my  own 
high  principles  that  we  four  have  been  permitted  so  far  in  our 
journeying." 

Thought  expired  in  the  doctor's  fuddled  mind;  only  visions, 
visions  of  the  sentimental  soul,  remained.  They  were  in 
spirit-land,  voyaging  across  spirit-land,  to  the  Country  of 
Heart's  Desire,  where  was  neither  work  nor  war  nor  wages, 
neither  eating  of  meat  nor  bibbing  of  wine,  but  only  Man  and 
Woman,  refined  to  the  Absolute  Beauty,  existing  flower-like 
among  crocus-studded  meads. 

That  evening  Nak,  rolling  mountainously  through  the 
purple  twilight,  smelt  jungle;  and  reaching  it,  decided  to  halt. 
The  runner-boy,  prodding  vainly  with  his  ankus,  turned  in 
despair  to  the  Long'un,  who  climbed  on  to  the  driving-seat. 
But  the  elephant  refused  to  proceed.  Neither  goad  nor 


268  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

cajolment  moved  him.  He  curled  his  trunk  round  the  lower 
fans  of  a  cocoa-palm  and  feasted. 

After  a  good  half -hour,  still  taking  no  notice  of  the  goad, 
Nak  went  his  own  way,  the  dry  twigs  of  undergrowth  clicking 
like  abaci  against  his  distended  belly.  Darkness  fell,  and 
the  "trusty"  ones  began  to  mutter.  Dicky,  still  on  the  driv- 
ing seat,  made  out  the  words  "Wat  Ko-nan — Wat  Ko-nan" 
remembered  Akiou's  fear  of  that  mysterious  temple. 

It  was  an  eerie  night :  moonless,  windless,  strangely  starless 
for  Harinesia.  Enormous  fireflies  made  silver  blazes  about 
the  howdah,  danced  in  speckled  bands  round  the  heads  of  the 
cocoa-palms.  They  heard  deer  leaping  through  the  under- 
growth, baying  as  of  great  hounds  in  pursuit;  hiss  of  snakes. 

By  the  time  Nak  arrived  at  the  outer  walls  of  the  Temple 
Dicky  could  see  that  the  yellow  men  were  almost  beside  them- 
selves with  terror.  But  nothing  could  stop  Nak,  for  Nak, 
still  stirred  by  memories,  had  remembered  the  old  well  of 
refreshing  water  round  which  the  Wat  of  Ko-nan  was  origi- 
nally builded.  He  ambled  in,  brushing  aside  the  under- 
growth which  blocked  the  main  entrance,  scraped  his  howdah- 
top  against  lichened  stones;  found  the  well;  knelt — as  was 
his  custom — for  them  to  dismount;  and  drank  deep. 

"He  is  no  fool,  that  animal,"  said  de  Gys,  as  the  three 
stood  watching  the  white  trunk  dip  hose-like  into  the  black- 
ness; suck  itself  full;  withdraw;  curl  inwards  to  the  mouth; 
squirt,  and  return  for  more.  "Moi  aussi,  I  should  like  a 
trunk."  The  lethargy  of  the  Frenchman's  morning  had 
given  way  to  a  febrile  thirst  which  he  insisted  on  satiating 
before  they  inspected  the  Temple. 

Their  attendants — Nak  off-howdahed — had  vanished. 
Phu-nan  was  prospecting  for  sleeping  accommodation.  They 
could  see  very  little — a  ring  of  dark  walls  pierced  at  regular 
intervals  by  oval  entrances,  a  cylindrical  tower  in  the  centre 
of  the  wall-ring,  and  three  broken-down  post-and-lintel 
constructions  which  de  Gys — who  referred  to  the  tower  as  a 
"tope"— decided  to  be  "pai-lous" 

"Can't  imagine  what  those  chaps  are  so  frightened  of," 
mused  the  Long'un;  but  that  night — tossing  sleepless  on 


QUIVERING  STONE  269 

the  hard  stone  floor  of  the  tope — he  understood  a  little  of  the 
terror  with  which  this  place  inspired  the  superstitious  savages 
of  yellow-island-country. 

By  some  curious  architectural  trick  the  tower  was  so  con- 
structed that  the  slightest  noise  at  floor-level  re-echoed,  loud 
as  the  beat  of  a  drum,  in  the  cupolaed  roof.  The  walls,  of 
axe-hewn  limestone,  emitted  a  faint  phosphorescence.  (This, 
till  he  scraped  the  limestone  with  his  fingers  and  saw  that  the 
phosphorescence  adhered  to  his  skin,  considerably  puzzled 
Dicky.)  Grotesque  shadows  lurked  in  every  corner,  seemed 
to  beckon  across  the  milky  darkness.  And  when,  just  before 
dawn,  a  breeze  sprang  up  outside,  the  whistle  of  it  through 
the  orifices  of  the  cupola  made  a  strange  musical  noise,  which 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  the  thump  and  tinkle  of  ghostly 
tambourines. 

However,  Dicky  got  to  sleep  at  last;  and  when  he  woke  in 
the  morning  the  interior  of  the  tower  looked  ordinary  enough. 

De  Gys  still  slumbered,  moaning  every  now  and  then  as 
though  in  memory  of  pain ;  Beamish,  curled  in  a  ball,  snored 
accompaniment;  Phu-nan,  obeying  orders,  had  slept  in  the 
howdah.  The  Long'un  got  up,  buckled  on  his  kilt  and 
bracer,  took  helmet,  and  stepped  out. 

It  was  a  hot  morning.  Sun,  already  high  above  the 
pierced  circle  of  the  outer  walls,  baked  a  desolation  of  crum- 
bled masonry  and  evil-smelling  weeds.  Midway  to  the  walls 
stood  Nak — pensively  rubbing  galled  back  against  the  lintel 
of  a  pai-lou.  Through  the  archway  of  Nak's  legs  the 
Long'un  could  see  the  howdah-top,  Phu-nan's  bare  head,  and 
the  broken  guard-rail  of  the  well.  He  picked  his  way  among 
the  masonry  towards  the  well-head. 

Nak,  desisting  from  his  amusement,  followed  like  a  dog; 
stood  watching  curiously  while  the  "white-faced  one"  drank 
the  helmetful  of  water  which  Phu-nan  gave  him,  took  a  curly- 
backed  hunting-bow  from  the  howdah,  strung  it,  slung  a 
quiver  over  his  shoulders,  and  started  for  the  main  entrance. 
Then  Nak  followed  again. 

"  Confound  Jumbo,"  thought  the  Long'un,  "he'll  scare  every 
peacock  for  miles." 


270  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Just  outside  the  entrance  they  found  the  three  Harinesians 
still  asleep  under  a  rough  pole-and-branch  shelter.  The 
Long'un  kicked  them  awake,  made  signs  for  them  to  join 
Phu-nan.  They  shook  their  heads,  and  he  had  to  flex  his 
bow  menacingly  before  they  would  obey.  Nak — as  was  his 
custom — knelt  to  be  mounted. 

4 'Silly  brute!"  thought  the  Long'un,  then,  looking  at  the 
jungle,  understood.  The  elephant  was  right:  no  bowman 
could  hope  to  kill  game  a-foot  among  that  tangled  under- 
growth. He  clambered  up  the  beast's  head,  bestrode  the 
neck-muscles,  felt  them  rise  under  him.  Nak,  breasting  the 
undergrowth  as  a  cargo-boat  breasts  ground  swell,  set  off. 

Seen  from  that  eminence,  the  jungle  looked  like  a  brown 
ocean.  Here  and  there,  shining  life-buoys  on  the  ocean, 
appeared  the  green  domes  of  cabbage  palmettoes.  A  brace  of 
peafowl  rose  with  a  whirr,  dived  again  before  Dicky  could 
fit  arrow  to  string.  Came  another  whirr,  blue  shimmer  of  a 
neck.  Dicky  shot  as  the  crested  head  rose;  saw  his  arrow 
pierce  between  the  wings;  heard  the  cock  flapping  among  the 
undergrowth.  Nak,  guided  by  the  sound,  thrust  about  with 
his  trunk,  retrieved  the  bird,  passed  it  up. 

"Must  drop  the  'Spur'  a  line  about  this,"  thought  the 
Long'un,  as  he  wrung  the  peacock's  neck,  and  drew  out 
his  arrow.  Then  he  remembered  that  the  nearest  post- 
office  was  a  thousand  miles  away,  that  they  were  in  Hari- 
nesia,  that  they  might  never  escape  from  Harinesia,  that  de 
Gys  lay  desperately  ill  within  that  circle  of  walls  he  could 
see  rising  like  a  gigantic  tambourine  above  the  brown  ocean 
of  jungle. 

The  thought  sobered,  saddened,  took  all  zest  out  of  sport. 
He  missed  the  next  bird — an  easy  shot;  cursed  at  losing  a 
valuable  arrow;  killed  a  sitter  in  one  of  the  palmetto  domes; 
slit  the  first  bird's  leg,  joined  it  to  its  fellow,  slung  the  brace 
across  Nak's  neck,  turned  him  by  the  pressure  of  right  knee 
behind  the  ear,  and  started  for  home. 

Beamish,  in  his  most  cantankerous  pre-breakfast  mood, 
was  washing  himself  at  the  well  when  the  pair  returned. 

Said  Beamish — as  the  Long'un,  dismounting,  showed  his 


QUIVERING  STONE  271 

trophies — "It  seems  beastly  cruel  to  kill  those  jolly  birds. 
I  always  think  that  sport " 

"We  all  know  what  your  kind  thinks  about  sport,"  snapped 
the  Long'un.  "And  when  you  leave  off  eating  the  birds  other 
people  shoot  for  you  we  may  listen  to  your  arguments. 
How's  deGys?" 

"Worse,"  admitted   Beamish. 


They  started  again  at  noon.  The  peacock — for  fire  to  roast 
which  they  had  to  thank  the  Moi's  skill  with  split  bamboo 
and  rubbing-stick — had  put  a  little  strength  into  the  French- 
man's body.  He  managed  to  climb  the  howdah;  but  once 
there  felt  too  weak  to  sit  upright.  They  made  him  as  com- 
fortable as  they  could,  letting  him  lie  full  length  on  one  seat, 
Beamish  and  Phu-nan  opposite;  while  the  Long'un,  hunting- 
bow  over  his  knees,  rode  with  the  Harinesians  in  front. 

For  three  hours  Nak  breasted  the  ocean  of  low  jungle. 
The  elephant  trod  warily,  making  little  tacks  across  the 
undergrowth,  guiding  himself  by  some  curious  instinct  from 
dome  to  dome  of  the  green  palmetto-tops. 

"De  Gys  asks" — Beamish's  sallow  face  parted  the  howdah- 
curtains — "whether  you  can  see  anything  of  Quivering 
Stone  yet." 

The  Long'un  scanned  horizon.  "Tell  him  I  can  see  noth- 
ing at  all.  But  the  smell's  awful — like  tom-cats.  If  this 
isn't  the  Pittising  country  we've  heard  so  much  about,  I'm  a 
Dutchman." 

Nak's  runner-boy  grinned,  "Aval.  Avol.  Pittising.''9 
Kun-mer's  trusty  ones  took  up  the  cry,  "Pittising.  Pittising.''9 
Nak  plunged  into  a  nullah,  nearly  pitching  them  from  their 
seats. 

Now  howdah-top  was  below  jungle-level.  Either  side  of 
them  rose  banks  of  yellow  sand  warrened  with  innumerable 
holes.  Peering  forward  over  the  dome  of  Nak's  head,  Dicky 
saw  that  rocks  strewed  the  winding  track,  that  brown  strata 
of  jungle,  fissured  at  irregular  intervals  with  the  deeper  brown 
of  palm  boles,  topped  either  bank.  Sun  and  sky  had  dis- 


272  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

appeared;  the  hot,  cat-stinking  air  buzzed  with  swarms  of 
unclean  flies. 

"And  it  was  here,"  thought  the  Long'un,  "here  in  this  loath- 
some gully  that  Sen-na  and  his  men  found  Melie."  He  began 
to  picture  Melie,  the  whiteness  of  her  skin  and  the  gold  of  her 
hair,  the  wood- violets  of  her  eyes;  seemed  to  hear  her  voice 
again,  a  far-away  voice  out  of  the  olden  time.  A  roll  of  the 
driving-seat  jerked  the  picture  of  Melie  from  his  mind. 

The  elephant  had  lost  control  of  his  nerves;  he  hurried 
along,  trunk  high,  fear  in  his  eyes,  howdah  rolling,  driving- 
seat  rolling,  girths  straining,  rocks  scattering  this  way  and 
that  before  his  anxious  feet.  Suddenly  he  stopped;  screamed 
twice — low,  tense  screams  of  terror.  Dicky,  whipping  an 
arrow  from  his  quiver,  peered  down  at  the  track  ahead;  saw 
nothing  but  a  whitey-yellow  molehill.  Gingerly,  Nak  step- 
ped over  the  molehill — rolled  on. 

Beamish  called  through  the  howdah-curtains,  "What 
frightened  him,  Long'un?" 

"Pittising  spoor,  I  think.  You  might  pass  out  Skelvi, 
and  some  black  arrows."  Dicky — all  the  Anglo-Saxon  in 
him  aquiver  at  the  notion  of  big-game  shooting — handed  back 
the  small  weapon;  took  and  strung  the  great  bow,  chose  a 
shaft. 

He  began  to  consider  how  to  shoot  from  the  driving-seat; 
tried  to  flex  the  bow  horizontally ;  nearly  put  out  the  runner- 
boy's  eye;  desisted;  gripped  foot-rail  with  his  toes;  stood  up- 
right, edge  of  the  seat  chafing  his  calves. 

Suddenly  he  sighted  a  huge  tabby  shape  slinking  along  the 
top  of  the  bank;  nearly  fell  overboard  as  he  drew  barb  to 
bow-back;  shot;  heard  a  yelp  of  pain;  collapsed  on  a  trusty 
one's  lap;  recovered  himself;  saw  the  enormous  cat-head 
crouching  to  its  pounce;  gazed  for  one  fascinated  second  at 
the  pointed  ears,  the  devil-marks  under  the  eyes,  the  vertical 
hairs  above,  the  sprouting  whiskers  below.  .  .  . 

And  in  that  second  Pittising  sprang.     .     .     . 

Dicky  was  conscious  of  a  head  hurling  itself  through  space, 
of  paws  waving  above  the  head,  of  Nak  screaming,  of  claws 
striking  at  the  runner-boy,  of  two  fiery  eyes,  of  a  mouth  set 


QUIVERING  STONE  273 

with  needle-sharp  tushes,  of  his  second  arrow-barb  sighted 
for  the  mouth.  Then  he  saw  the  barb  pierce  home,  the  head 
disappear.  Followed  chaos  as  of  earthquake,  darkness.  .  .  . 


Dicky,  struggling  back  to  light,  perceived  Beamish's  face, 
the  pink  tip  of  a  trunk;  heard  a  dolorous  whistle;  sat  up. 

"What  the  devil?"  began  Dicky. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Beamish's  voice.  "You  fell  over- 
board. The  cat's  dead." 

"I  should  hope  so."  He  relapsed  again,  still  vaguely 
aware  of  that  dolorous  whistling. 


By  the  time  the  Long'un  came  to  himself  they  were  once 
more  en  route.  He  lay  opposite  de  Gys.  Beamish,  wedged 
upright  between  his  two  patients,  tried  to  explain  what  had 
happened. 

"  Your  second  arrow  killed  the  beast  stone  dead.  It  simply 
toppled  backwards.  You  must  have  gone  overboard  to- 
gether." 

"Nak  hurt?"  asked  the  Long'un. 

"He's  got  a  nasty  gash  down  his  trunk,  and  one  ear's  torn. 
But  his  principal  worry  seems  to  have  been  your  safety." 

"Good  old  Nak!     Skelvi  all  right?" 

"Yes.     You're  lying  on  it.     But  the  gut  snapped." 

"Never  mind.  I've  got  two  spares  in  my  helmet.  How 
about  the  pittising?" 

"Nak  trampled  it  to  pulp." 

"Pity.     I  should  have  liked  that  skin." 

"Nothing  much  the  matter  with  you,  Long'un,"  decided 
Beamish.  The  patient  sat  up.  De  Gys,  waking  from  an 
uncomfortable  doze,  asked  again  about  Quivering  Stone. 

"We  must  get  there,"  he  kept  muttering.  "We  must  get 
there!"  Dicky  parted  the  rear  curtains,  looked  out.  They 
were  through  the  jungle  country.  A  low  fringe  of  trees 
banded  the  luminous  horizon;  from  the  trees  a  straight  scar- 
let sand-track  receded — broadening  like  the  wake  of  a  ship — 


274  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

under  the  elephant's  poop.  Either  side  the  track  rock- 
desert  winked  purpurescently  in  the  swift  Harinesian  twi- 
light. 

Phu-nan's  voice  called;  Phu-nan's  face,  grotesque  under 
bronze  helmet,  inserted  itself  through  the  howdah-front. 
The  Moi  was  jabbering  with  excitement. 

"We're  there!"  ejaculated  de  Gys.  He  shouted  hoarsely 
to  his  servant.  The  front  curtains  opened  with  a  tearing 
of  rotten  leather,  a  jingle  of  rusted  rings — and  Quivering 
Stone,  goal  of  all  their  hopes,  stood  at  last  revealed. 

Beamish  saw  it,  the  Long'un  saw  it — even  de  Gys,  in  the 
one  second  before  he  fainted,  visioned  that  Ultima  Thule  of 
the  Golden  Land.  Framed  as  through  a  casement  under  the 
lintel  of  the  howdah,  topping  the  gradual  slope  of  rock-desert 
which  upslanted  purple  from  the  silhouetted  heads  that 
manned  the  driving  seat,  far  and  sharp  against  the  crimson 
lacquer  of  a  westering  sun,  rose  a  sable  thumb,  a  giant's 
thumb,  poking  impertinently  above  the  shimmer  of  the  sky- 
line, poking  and  beckoning,  and  vanishing  from  view  as 
Nak's  outstretched  trunk-tip  veered  compass- wise  to  a  bend 
in  the  track.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  see,  Long'un?"  gasped  Beamish.  "It  moved. 
I'll  swear  it  moved." 

"Don't  be  such  an  ass." 

The  Frenchman's  eyes  opened.  "It  trembles,"  he  mut- 
tered, "la  pierre  tremble." 

Dicky  grabbed  for  the  telescope-case,  jerked  out  the  in- 
strument, flung  open  the  starboard  curtains.  But  telescope 
searched  sky-line  in  vain;  Quivering  Stone  had  disappeared 
behind  the  purple  contours.  .  .  . 


.  .  .  And  that  night  they  looked  no  more  on  Quiver- 
ing Stone  but  came,  by  sport  delayed,  to  Last  Barracks,  which 
They  of  the  Bow  built  for  an  outpost  against  invasion  when 
the  Mandarins  made  treaty  with  the  Bloo  Loy. 

Last  Barracks,  black-wood  walled,  curly-gabled,  doored 
and  arrow-slitted  as  the  barracks  of  the  Outer  Gates,  stand  at 


QUIVERING  STONE  275 

the  foot  of  the  rock-slope,  twenty  Harinesian  bowshots  from 
The  Stone;  and  here  the  Guard,  on  a  whisper  from  Kun-mer's 
trusty  ones,  welcomed  the  travellers,  and  cooked  tea  of 
Puerh  for  them,  and  roasted  peacocks,  and  proffered  cheroots, 
and  even  made  an  infusion  of  mulberry  leaves  which  de 
Gys — in  spite  of  the  doctor's  dissuasions — drank  at  a  gulp, 
swearing  it  to  be  the  only  antidote  for  the  poison  in  his  arm. 

And  here,  utterly  exhausted,  the  one  by  his  wound  and 
the  other  by  his  tumble,  the  two  veterans  slept  like  children — 
dreamlessly  forgetful  alike  of  quests  beginning  far  away  in 
Singapore  or  of  quests  ending  close  beyond  the  star-dusted 
sky-line. 

But  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  lay  wakeful  through 
the  night — blissfully  conscious  of  his  own  virtue,  blissfully 
certain  that  the  morrow  would  bring  him  its  reward. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-THIRD 

The  Land  of  Beamish' 's  desire 

A  YET  only  the  finger-tips  of  dawn  showed  their  gold- 
rose  above  the  sky-gray  of  Pittising's  country; 
gauze-mists  of  sunrise  still  swathed  the  black- wood 
gables  of  Last  Barracks.  But  already  the  three  adventurers 
were  astir;  already  Phu-nan  had  brought  them  fruit  and 
orange-scented  Puerh;  already  the  party  stood  equipped  for 
its  journey. 

De  Gys,  face  pale  as  a  spectre's  against  the  startling  red 
of  his  beard,  leaned  heavily  on  a  boar-spear.  His  left  arm, 
in  the  improvised  sling,  still  pained  excruciatingly.  The 
light  helmet  was  an  iron  weight  on  his  neck-muscles;  greaves 
and  sollerets  leaden  casings  about  the  weakness  of  his  limbs. 
Sweat  poured  under  his  breast-plate;  the  great  sword  and  the 
two  thro  wing-axes  tugged  like  heavy  hands  at  his  belt. 
"But  I  must  go,"  thought  the  Frenchman.  "Ill,  dying,  dead 
even,  I  must  still  go  to  the  rescue  of  my  countrymen." 

Beamish,  loaded  like  a  mule  with  half-a-dozen  bricks  of  tea, 
a  cold  peacock,  several  bundles  of  cheroots,  and — worst  insult 
of  all  to  his  pacific  soul — three  spare  quivers  of  hunting- 
arrows,  drooped  cantankerously  at  the  Frenchman's  side. 
"/This  is  a  nice  way  to  set  out  for  Utopia,"  mused  Cyprian 
Beamish,  and  he  looked  from  the  trusty  ones,  burdened  as 
himself,  gourds  at  their  belts,  tubes  of  compressed  rice  on 
their  backs,  to  the  militarist  figures  of  the  Long'un  and  Phu- 
nan. 

Neither  the  Long'un  nor  Phu-nan  carried  rations.  Pano- 
plied from  scalp  to  ankle-bone,  armed  to  the  teeth,  their 
frames  could  not  bear  another  ounce. 

"This  is  worse  than  being  an  infantryman  in  Flanders," 

276 


THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIRE          277 

groused  the  Long'un,  affixing  de  Gys'  telescope  to  his  belt. 
"Why  the  devil  was  Kun-mer  in  such  a  hurry  to  have 
Nakback!" 

He  looked  towards  the  elephant,  sprawling  like  a  white 
barricade  across  the  sand-track;  whistled  him.  Clumsily, 
Nak  rose  to  his  full  height,  tried  to  obey  the  whistle.  But 
his  runner-boy  had  moored  him  by  the  leg  to  a  stout  post. 

"Poor  old  Jumbo ! "  thought  Dicky.  "He's  the  only  living 
thing  in  Harinesia  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave." 

The  mailed  sentries  at  the  doors  of  Last  Barracks — watch- 
ing curiously  while  the  tall  man  clanked  across  to  the  tall 
beast — saw  the  man  pat  the  beast's  trunk,  saw  the  beast 
kneel  to  be  mounted,  heard  the  man  speak,  saw  the  beast  rise 
again,  slowly,  doubtfully  as  a  dog  who  fears  he  has  mis- 
understood his  master's  command.  .  . 

"We'd  better  be  off,"  said  the  tall  man,  gruffly;  and  to 
himself,  "I'm  a  fool,  a  fool.  I  can't  bear  parting  with  old 
Nak." 

The  last  thing  the  Long'un  saw  as  he  led  their  little  party 
up  the  slope  was  a  white  mountain  of  misery,  whistling 
dolorously  in  the  dawn-mist,  a  white  trunk  sprinkling  red 
sand  on  a  white  dome  of  head.  For  this  had  been  Nak's 
custom  in  the  days  of  the  Emperor,  and  now,  after  many 
centuries,  he  again  did  mourning  for  a  Man. 


Gradually  the  fingers  of  the  dawn  flushed  to  warmest  rose 
over  Pittising's  country;  gradually  the  curly  gables  of  Last 
Barracks  sank  behind;  gradually  gauze-mists  of  sunrise 
thinned  on  the  rock-slopes  ahead.  Dicky,  plodding  steadily 
in  the  lead,  could  hear  de  Gys'  labouring  breath,  the  tap  of 
his  spear-shaft,  little  stones  clinking  against  his  sollerets, 
the  rattle  of  Beamish's  quivers,  jingle  of  Phu-nan's  kilt.  He 
looked  back,  saw  that  he  had  outdistanced  them,  waited. 
Waiting,  a  glimmer  amongst  the  rocks  caught  his  eye;  he 
stooped,  lifted  the  glimmering  thing,  examined  it. 
De  Gys,  joining  him,  panted:  "What  is  it,  friend?" 
Quietly,  though  his  blue  eyes  blazed  excitement,  Dicky 


278  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

handed  over  the  find.  "You  are  justified,  mon  vieux.  This 
is  no  blind  trail  that  we  three  have  followed.  Regarde  I" 

De  Gys  took  the  thing,  turned  it  this  way  and  that  in  his 
shaking  hands.  Then  he  said,  very  reverently:  "Mon  ami, 
by  the  grace  of  God  we  are  about  to  accomplish  a  great 
miracle.  I  only  pray  Him  that  these  weary  feet  of  mine 
carry  me  to  the  end."  And  he  held  up  the  thing  of  his 
friend's  finding — the  little  tarnished  crucifix  whose  paste 
centre  had  glimmered  for  a  sign  of  hope  among  the  last 
rocks  of  yellow-island-country. 

"Forward,  mon  vieux"  muttered  Rene  de  Gys.  "For- 
ward!" 

Gradually  the  sun  rose  over  Pittising's  country;  gradually, 
merest  hint  of  a  dark  disc  above  the  sky-line  towards  which 
they  laboured,  appeared  Quivering  Stone;  gradually,  topping 
the  brown  of  rock,  disc  grew  to  ball  of  a  giant's  thumb. 


Once  again,  in  his  eagerness,  the  Long'un  had  outdistanced 
the  party.  Now  he  stood  amazed  on  the  summit  of  the 
crest.  Either  side  of  him  flat  ridges  switchbacked  to  blank 
sky-lines;  in  front  bulked  an  egg — an  enormous  egg  of  black- 
est granite! 

The  "egg,"  fully  twenty  feet  in  height,  was  up-ended, 
poised  perilous  on  naked  rock  at  very  edge  of  near  horizon; 
and  even  as  the  Long'un  gazed  at  it,  the  egg  quivered, 
seemed  about  to  fall,  balanced  itself  once  more. 

Followed  immediately  noise,  a  strange  guggling  noise  from 
far  down  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  Noise  died  away. 

Gingerly  the  Long'un  approached;  gingerly,  fearful  lest 
the  Stone  should  topple  over  on  him,  he  prodded  at  it 
with  his  spear-butt.  The  stone  resisted  him.  He  drove 
harder.  .  .  .  Not  a  movement! 

"Must  have  been  a  delusion,"  thought  the  Long'un,  "some- 
thing to  do  with  the  light.  Now  for  the  promised  land!" 

He  laid  his  weapons  on  the  ground,  unslung  de  Gys'  tele- 
scope, rounded  Quivering  Stone — and  again  halted.  This 
time  he  was  too  amazed  even  for  thought. 


THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIRE         279 

On  the  far  side  of  the  Stone,  so  close  under  its  base  that 
it  seemed  impossible  the  vast  ovoid  of  granite  should  not 
plunge  headlong  at  slightest  touch,  gaped  the  round  mouth 
of  an  enormous  pit — a  pit  whose  sheer  tunnel  dived  per- 
pendicularly as  a  drilled  borehole  into  fathomless  darkness. 
Very  faintly  out  of  that  fathomless  darkness  issued  sound — 
ghost  of  an  echo  of  the  strange  guggling  which  had  accom- 
panied the  quivering  of  the  Stone. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  said  the  Long'un. 

He  picked  up  a  pebble,  dropped  it  into  the  pit  mouth, 
listened  for  sound  of  its  fall,  heard  never  a  sound  except  that 
eerie  guggling. 


"  Well,  I'm  damned !"  he  repeated.  How  came  the  Stone  to 
poise  thus  amazingly  at  pit's  edge?  Had  volcanic  fires  spewed 
it  up  the  borehole — or  had  it  been  imbedded,  aeons  since,  in 
the  glacial  ice?  "Goodness  knows,"  said  the  Long'un. 

Then  he  opened  his  telescope,  circled  the  pit,  and  gazed 
spell-bound  into  a  valley  of  dreams. 

Faintest  diaphanous  haze  curtained  the  valley;  and 
through  this  haze  shimmered  fountains — nebulous  feathers  of 
spray  that  rose  and  subsided  murmurously  to  grottoes  of 
pinkest  coral,  and  creamiest  ivory,  and  jade,  emerald  as  the 
gentle  turf-slope  which  led  straight  from  the  watcher's  feet 
into  a  man-made  paradise.  For  no  less  than  man-made  para- 
dise, after  the  dreary  sand,  the  barren  rocks,  and  the  darkling 
forests  of  yellow-island-country,  seemed  this  place  to  the 
first  sight  of  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith. 

But  gradually,  as  spell  lifted,  the  Honourable  Richard 
Assheton  Smith  knew  that  the  fountains  were  geyser-foun- 
tains; and  the  jewels  of  the  grottoes,  geyser-jewels;  and  the 
turf,  geyser-turf;  and  the  haze,  geyser-haze.  And  gradually, 
peering  through  the  haze,  he  realized  that  a  path  led  down 
between  the  geyser-fountains.  And  following  the  path  with 
his  eye,  he  saw  that  it  issued  beyond  the  fountain-belt 
through  a  glimmering  green  plateau  to  the  banks  of  a  river. 
And  beyond  the  river,  which  arched  like  the  back  of  a  sickle- 


280  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

blade  among  the  green,  rose  a  variegated  foam  of  blossoming 
tree-tops;  and  beyond  the  tree-tops,  based  four-square  on  an 
oval  of  saffron  mead,  stood  a  Greek  temple — pillared  ivory 
flushing  faintest  pink  to  the  climbing  sun. 

"But  it  can't  be  a  temple,"  muttered  Dicky.  "It  can't 
be  ivory.  It  can't  be  Greek." 

He  took  de  Gys'  telescope;  focussed  it;  saw  that  the  ivory 
temple  of  his  imagination  was  no  more  man-made  than  the 
fountains,  but  a  great  bluff  of  natural  marble,  caverned  at  the 
base,  roughly  columned  and  pedimented  as  though  some  giant 
sculptor  had  begun  to  fashion  it,  grown  weary  of  labour.  .  .  . 

Noise,  deep  in  the  pit  behind  him,  disturbed  survey.  He 
whipped  the  telescope  from  his  eye,  turned  just  in  time  to  see 
the  huge  black  egg  of  the  Stone  quiver,  hesitate  on  the  brink 
of  the  pit,  recover  itself,  stand  steady. 

Now,  round  the  Stone,  appeared  De  Gys,  leaning  heavily 
on  Beamish's  shoulder;  and  Phu-nan,  carrying  Bow  Skelvi 
and  Dicky's  forgotten  spear;  and  Kun-mer's  "trusty  ones," 
sweat  pouring  down  their  yellow  faces,  backs  bowed  under 
the  weight  of  their  burdens.  "Nous  y  sommes"  muttered  de 
Gys;  but,  even  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes  dimmed  and  he  sank  ex- 
hausted to  earth. 

The  Long'un  snatched  a  gourd  from  one  of  the  Harinesians; 
knelt;  loosened  the  Frenchman's  helmet-chain;  dashed  water 
on  the  dank  brow.  "Rice-wine,  doc!"  called  the  Long'un. 
But  he  might  as  well  have  called  on  a  statue  for  assist- 
ance. .  .  . 

Cyprian  Beamish  had  forgotten  his  M.  D.,  Glasgow;  for- 
gotten the  simple  duties  towards  fighting  humanity  which 
that  degree  entailed  on  him;  forgotten  even  politics,  At 
last  his  outward  eyes  saw  the  dream-country  of  his  inward 
soul — Land  of  the  Ultimate  Destiny.  Let  no  swashbuckling 
toss-pot  disturb  the  vision! 


Half  an  hour  later — de  Gys  a  mite  refreshed  with  a  great 
beaker  of  rice- wine  and  a  leg  wrenched  from  the  peacock — the 
three  made  ready  to  start.  Behind  them  the  Stone  quivered, 


THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIEE         281 

noise  guggled  in  the  pit :  below,  beautiful  as  a  dream,  lay  the 
Country  of  the  Flower. 

"I  see  no  people" — de  Gys  unglued  an  anxious  eye  from 
the  telescope. 

"Nor  I,"  announced  the  Long'un. 

"You  see  no  people" — Beamish  smiled  the  superior  smile 
of  his  breed,  the  smile  which  Harinesia  had  almost  effaced 
from  his  sallow  countenance — "but  I,  I  see  all  humanity 
under  those  flowering  trees,  in  that  eternal  sunshine." 

"Wish  I  had  your  eye-sight,  doc,"  chuckled  Dicky. 

But  at  that  the  Socialist  exploded.  Dreams,  hopes, 
visions,  certainty  of  own  wisdom  and  rage  at  others'  folly, 
all  erupted  in  one  incandescent  deluge  of  verbosity. 

"Blind!"  raged  Cyprian  Beamish.  "You  are  both  blind. 
Only — I  see  clearly,  by  the  light  of  the  certainty  hi  my  soul. 
You,  who  stimulate  your  animal  passions  with  the  flesh  of 
animals — you,  who  souse  your  greedy  gullets  with  the 
poison  of  the  grape — you,  who  still  preach  the  accursed 
gospel  of  force — you,  who  deny  the  universal  brotherhood — 
how  should  you  understand  a  country  such  as  that,  a  man 
such  as  I  am?  You  are  as  blind  to  that  Beauty  below  us 
as  you  are  blind  to  my  ideals.  Yes!  Ideals!" — one  furious 
foot  kicked  Skelvi  a  yard  across  the  turf — "ideals  carry  fur- 
ther than  this  murderous  toy.  Yes!  Ideals!" — spatula te 
fingers  pointed  scornfully  at  Sword  Straight — "ideals  are 
sharper  than  that  butcher's  tool.  O  God!" — emotion 
keyed  the  voice  to  frenzy — "have  not  these  two  mocked  at 
me  enough?  Wilt  Thou  not  show  them,  down  there  in 
Thine  own  glorious  country,  that  I  alone  know  Truth?" 

"Pah!"  broke  in  de  Gys.  "A  truce  to  sermonizing.  If 
my  countrymen  be  below,  every  minute  wasted  is  a  minute 
given  to  Kun-mer." 

Into  the  Long'un's  mind  came  an  echo  of  the  past,  Beam- 
ish's  voice:  "Truth  is  Beauty,  especially  the  beauty  of 
woman."  He  saw  Melie  again,  yearned  for  her  as  he  had 
yearned  long  ago  in  Singapore.  Only  now,  with  yearning 
mingled  apprehension.  He  remembered  under  what  in- 
fluence those  words  of  Beamish's  had  been  spoken! 


282  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

i 

"And  the  Flower,  doc?"  asked  the  Long'un.  "Can  you 
see  that?" 

"Aye,"  said  Beamish — but  the  tiniest  note  of  doubting 
quivered  in  his  voice.  "That,  too,  I  can  see.  We  shall 
find  it  in  the  valley,  find  it  for  all  humanity." 

"Ten  days  brings  Them  of  the  Bow  to  Quivering  Stone," 
muttered  Rene  de  Gys.  "  Lead  on,  Bearer  of  Skelvi.  Lead 
on,  ere  the  black  bane  of  Su-rah  slays  me  as  it  slew  my  enemy, 
Negrini." 

"Enemy!"  For  a  moment  the  Long'un  hesitated.  In- 
stinct, the  age-old  instinct  of  the  fighting-man,  warned  him  of 
danger.  What  if  there  were  no  people  in  the  valley — but 
only  the  Flower,  the  Flower  whose  purple 'beans  could  rob  a 
man  of  his  soul?  What  if  Negrini 's  vengeful  spirit  had 
planned  treachery  even  in  death? 

"Lead  on,  friend,"  pleaded  de  Gys. 

"Friend!"  The  word  banished  hesitation.  He  had  given 
his  promise;  there  could  be  no  turning  back. 

Silently  the  Long'un  took  up  his  bow,  strung  her,  gripped 
boar-spear,  and  set  off  down  the  hillside.  Turning,  he 
saw  that  Beamish  had  forgotten  the  peacock;  shouted 
him.  "Rations  before  ideals,"  thought  the  Long'un,  whimsi- 
cally. 

But  the  mind  of  Cyprian  Beamish,  as  he  picked  up  the 
peacock,  was  not  with  his  ideals.  He,  too,  had  remembered 
that  afternoon  in  far-away  Singapore,  remembered  the  first 
Flower-crazed  words  of  his  companions,  his  own  shocked 
feelings  as  he  listened  to  them.  Had  those  feelings  been 
true  feelings?  Had  he,  a  man  of  science,  drugged  his  own 
conscience?  Were  all  his  dreams  but  dope-dreams,  all  his 
flowery  illusions  foredoomed  to  withering? 

"Impossible!"  decided  Cyprian  Beamish.  "Impossible 
that  I  should  be  wrong;  that  a  soldier  and  a  capitalist  should 
be  wiser  than  I." 

Lips  set,  eyes  resolute,  vanity  stifling  the  last  doubt  in 
his  fuddled  brain,  the  man  who  could  not  realize  the  ideals  of 
others  set  out  for  Utopia. 


THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIRE         283 

They  came — Long'un  striding  in  the  van,  yellow  men 
labouring  in  the  rear — down  the  ribbon  of  moss-grown  track 
towards  the  geyser-fountains. 

They  came  into  the  haze  of  the  geyser-fountains;  heard  the 
splashings  and  the  leapings  of  the  fountains;  saw  sun  sparkle 
through  spray;  saw  spray  sparkle  against  sun.  They  came, 
by  clefts  of  coral  that  overarched  deep  mirrors  of  steamy 
quicksilver,  to  ivory  pools  of  shallowest  milk.  They  came, 
through  grottoes  green  with  maidenhair,  under  liquid  plumes 
of  spurting  gold.  They  came,  past  fantastic  water-flowers  of 
fantastic  emerald,  to  turquoise  basins  lipped  with  opal 
geyserite.  They  came  beyond  the  geyserite  through  knee- 
deep  bracken  glimmering  in  the  sun.  They  came  beyond 
the  bracken  to  stretches  of  smoothen  turf;  and  beyond  the 
turf  to  the  banks  of  that  river  they  had  seen  from  Quivering 
Stone. 

Here,  disappointment  awaited  them.  For  though  there 
seemed  no  current  in  the  river,  yet  neither  was  there  stillth 
in  the  waters  of  river.  The  deep  waters  of  the  river  bubbled, 
as  champagne  bubbles,  and  where  the  bubbles  burst,  steam 
rose.  And  on  the  far  side,  hiding  all  view,  blossoming  boughs 
overhung  the  waters  of  the  river,  but  where  the  waters 
touched  the  bough-blossoms  the  blossoms  shrivelled. 

But  the  path  they  followed  veered  along  the  boiling, 
bubbling  river;  and,  still  following  it,  they  came  on  a  dip  in 
the  river-bank  where  the  deep  waters,  bubbling  no  longer, 
shoaled  to  a  ford;  and  so  halted. 

"We'd  better  try  and  cross  here,"  suggested  the  Long'un. 
But  de  Gys,  trembling  with  the  fatigue  and  the  excitement, 
could  only  point  across  the  shoal. 

"Regarde!"  stammered  Rene  de  Gys. 

Twin  rocks,  square-topped,  white  as  the  temple  the  three 
had  seen  from  Quivering  Stone,  whiter  and  taller  than  the 
trees  which  foamed  in  white  blossom  to  their  bases,  guarded 
the  thither  side  of  the  ford.  Sky,  perfect  azure  above  tree- 
line,  thrust  a  thin  blade  of  sapphire  down  between  the  daz- 
zling white  of  the  rocks;  and  at  point  of  the  sapphire  blade 
they  saw  the  second  sign  of  the  Flower  Folk.  .  .  . 


284  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Thus  might  Vauban  himself  have  defended  it,"  stam- 
mered de  Gys.  For  the  narrow  tongue  of  entrance  between 
the  rocks  was  fortified.  A  glacis  of  green  turf  sloped  up 
from  the  edge  of  the  shoal;  and  along  the  top  of  the  glacis, 
dug  from  rock-face  to  rock-face,  ran  a  ditch;  and  above  the 
ditch  bulked  an  indubitable  line  of  earthworks. 

"En  avant"  muttered  de  Gys. 

Long'un  tested  the  waters  of  the  ford  with  one  anxious 
finger;  waded  in.  White  pebbles  of  the  river-bottom  warmed 
his  naked  soles;  warm  water  filled  greaves  and  sollerets,  rose 
above  his  knees,  sank  to  his  ankle-pieces.  He  reached  the 
rocks,  mounted  the  glacis;  turned,  resting  on  his  spear. 

De  Gys  and  Beamish  were  not  yet  halfway  across  the  ford; 
behind  them  waded  Phu-nan  and  the  laden  yellow  men. 
And  Long'un,  watching  the  yellow  men  struggle  waist-deep 
through  the  shoal,  thought — as  fighting-instinct  bade  him — 
of  the  sizzling,  frizzling  waters  which  edged  the  shoal  on 
either  side,  and  of  the  rock  gateway  which  guarded  the  shoal, 
and  of  the  fight  that  a  few  resolute  men  might  put  up  against 
a  host  from  those  earthworks  behind  him. 

Then  he  turned  again,  went  forward  up  the  glacis. 

Ten  strides  brought  him,  hopeful,  to  the  ditch;  but  the 
sides  of  the  ditch  had  caved  in,  and  the  bottom  of  the  ditch 
had  shallowed  to  the  caving  sides,  and  flowers — strange, 
orchid-shaped  flowers — blossomed  where  should  liave 
gleamed  iron  spikes  of  cheval-de-frise.  .  .  . 


De  Gys  floundered  wearily  through  the  flowers,  sat  him 
down  among  the  ruined  earthworks.  Beamish,  jettisoning 
his  peacock  and  his  quivers,  leaned  aching  back  against 
the  smooth,  cool  wall  of  rock.  Phu-nan  and  the  yellow 
men  stumbled  up  the  glacis. 

"It  has  all  been  for  nothing,"  mumbled  Rene  de  Gys — 
and  tears  welled  into  his  red-brown  eyes.  "I  can  go  no 
farther.  Nor  is  there  any  need." 

"Rest  yourself,"  interrupted  the  Long'un. 

"Aye,  I  shall  rest  well.     For  my  task  is  done.     This" — 


THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIRE         285 

one  arm  wavered  shaking  semi-circle  between  rock-face  and 
rock-face — "this  is  the  end  of  the  trail.  We  come  too  late. 
My  countrymen  are  all  dead."  He  rested  his  casqued  head 
on  his  huge  hands  and  wept — hard,  dry  sobs,  deep  in  the 
throat. 

" Courage,  mon  vieux" — Long'un  laid  a  hand  on  his  friend's 
knee — "we  have  yet  to  explore  the  temple." 

"Aye" — somehow,  the  Frenchman  staggered  to  his  feet — 
"let  us  go  on.  I  would  learn,  before  I  die,  how  they  came  to 
this  strange  place.  We  shall  find  traces  of  them,  perhaps — 
something  to  reward  us  for  our  pilgrimage." 

"Even  if  your  countrymen  are  dead" — Beamish  re-slung 
his  quivers — "the  Flower  is  still  to  find.  But  why  should 
you  imagine  they  are  dead?" 

Scornfully,  pointing  with  his  spear  to  the  ruined  ditch; 
scornfully,  sweeping  spear-point  from  rock-face  to  rock-face 
(and  so  narrow  was  the  passage  that  almost  spear-point 
touched  rock  and  rock) ;  scornfully,  as  grown  men  speak  to 
children,  spoke  the  soldier  of  France: 

"If  there  were  but  one  of  them  alive — and  that  one  a 
woman  of  my  country,  Monsieur — we  should  not  have  found 
the  ditch  undug,  the  pass  unguarded." 

And  Rene  de  Gys,  leaning  heavily  on  his  spear-shaft, 
stumbled  down  the  moss-grown  parados;  staggered  on, 
through  the  rock-cleft,  after  the  high,  shining  figure  of  his 

friend. 

*        *        *        *        * 

Dicky,  wary  as  a  scout  in  enemy  country,  spear-point 
drawn  back  for  sudden  thrust,  strung  bow  at  the  trail,  trod 
green  turf  stealthily.  Ahead,  widening  as  he  came  between 
the  high  rock-walls,  he  saw  a  carpet  of  flower-studded  turf, 
and  low  trees,  white  with  blossoms,  and  an  emerald  pathway 
between  the  trees. 

He  issued  from  between  the  rock-walls  into  sunshine. 
Sky  above  shone  softest  blue,  rocks  behind  glimmered  vwhite 
as  alabaster.  Turf  underfoot  was  softest,  silkiest  velvet 
clumped  here  and  there  with  golden  daffadillies.  Fragrance 
of  strange  flowers  cloyed  the  air. 


286  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

He  came,  picking  his  way  between  the  golden  flower- 
clumps,  to  the  emerald  pathway;  trod  on,  through  cool 
shadows.  Not  a  leaf,  not  a  blossom  stirred.  Either  side 
the  perfumed  branches  hemmed  him  to  the  winding  path; 
they  closed  above  his  head,  brushing  his  helmet.  A  white 
hare  loped  across  the  turf,  stood  gazing  at  him,  vanished 
among  the  snow  of  the  branches. 

And  suddenly  the  magic  of  this  place — the  fragrance  and 
the  still th  and  the  peace  of  it — took  Dicky  by  the  throat. 
Flagrant  Beamishery  wantoned  in  his  mind.  He  would 
fling  away  his  weapons,  drop  the  heavy  spear,  the  futile  bow, 
fling  off  the  weight  of  his  accoutrements,  go  naked  and 
defenceless  down  the  pathway  of  the  trees.  He  wanted  to 
plunge  naked  among  the  branches,  to  feel  the  soft  fingers  of 
the  branches  on  his  naked  breast. 

But  he  did  none  of  these  things.  He  went  on,  huge  in  his 
heavy  mail,  spear-point  at  the  ready,  till  the  path  widened, 
till  he  came  to  a  tiny  streamlet.  White  blossoms  floated, 
lily-like,  on  the  surface  of  the  streamlet;  and  peering  down 
through  the  lilies  of  the  blossoms  he  saw  tiny  fishes  wave  lazy 
golden  fins.  He  stirred  the  surface  of  the  streamlet  with 
his  spear-point;  but  the  fishes  seemed  to  have  no  fear  of  him. 
He  went  on,  down  the  broadening  path  beside  the  broadening 
stream.  Always  the  weapons  seemed  heavier  in  his  hand; 
always  the  harness  seemed  heavier  on  his  back  .  .  . 

Now  pathway  broadened  to  a  little  glade;  runnel  of  bluest 
sky  opened  silently  above  the  snow  of  the  branches,  runnel  of 
bluest  water  tinkled  musically  below.  Sun  shone  again.  He 
saw  a  speckled  deer  drinking  at  the  stream.  It  looked  up, 
unafraid,  as  he  passed.  Stream  wound  from  sight.  Glade 
followed  stream.  And  suddenly,  rounding  the  bend  of  the 
stream,  he  heard  laughter — the  unmistakable  laughter  of 
young  girls — then  a  voice — Melie's  voice! 

Dicky  stood  utterly  still.  The  voice — he  could  swear  it 
Melie's — came,  borne  by  the  stream,  round  the  white  screen 
of  branches. 

"  Si  on  faisoit  ce  la,  je  considerois  .  .  ."  Followed  an- 
other voice:  "Pivoine!  tuveuxm9 aider."  Melie  again:  "Pa- 


THE  LAND  OF  BEAMISH'S  DESIRE          287 

querette  !  Ma  douce,  ma  belle,  ma  plus  chere  Pdquerette,  je 
t'implore."  Splashings — more  laughter.  "Safrane!  .  .  . 
Safrane  I  Ne  sois  pas  fdchee."  Melie  once  more.  "Mais 
oui  que  je  suis  fd-chee — je  su-is  ires  ja-achee.  Mechanic 
Pivoine  !  Mechanic  Pdquerette  /" 

Hardly  realizing  that  his  limbs  carried  him,  Dicky  stole 
round  the  bend  of  the  stream.  .  .  . 

He  couldn't  move.  He  couldn't  think.  He  could  only 
feel  himself  blushing.  There  was  a  pool,  a  turf -girdled  pool  of 
bluest  water  at  his  feet.  All  round  the  pool  were  white 
trees.  And  in  the  centre  of  the  pool,  clad  only  in  filmiest 
garment  of  mauve  silk,  waist  deep  among  blossoms  and 
bluest  water,  were  Melie  and  her  two  companions. 

It  could  be  none  other  than  Melie;  the  crocus-gold  of  her 
hair  cascaded  shimmering  over  white  shoulders;  one  raised 
hand  shaded  the  wood-violets  of  her  eyes  from  the  sun;  the 
other  pointed  across  the  pool  to  the  mailed  figure  on  the  bank. 

And  Melie  laughed!  Unabashed,  she  laughed  at  him 
across  the  blue  and  the  blossoms  of  the  pool.  And  Melie's 
comrades  laughed  with  her.  Their  laughter  rippled  to  him 
across  the  water.  And  very  slowly,  blossoms  rippling  at 
their  knees,  the  three  came  towards  him;  and  he  saw  that  the 
hair  of  one  of  Melie's  comrades  was  paler  than  ripe  barley 
in  moonshine,  and  the  hair  of  the  other  tawny  as  flame  in 
sunlight. 

Then  he  was  aware  of  de  Gys  and  Beamish,  one  on  either 
side  of  him,  breathless — men  in  a  dream. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH 

Lover  of  Pivoine,  Lover  of  Pdquerette,  and  Lover  of  SafranS 

yE  M'APPELLE  SAFRANE.    How  are  you  called, 
man  of  iron?" 
The  girl  whom  Dicky  had  taken  for  Melie  laughed  up 
at  him  from  the  edge  of  the  pool,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  no 
more  afraid  than  the  white  hare  which  had  loped  across  the 
turf,  or  the  speckled  deer,  or  the  lazy  gold-fish  in  the  stream- 
let. 

"I  am  called  Smith,"  said  Dicky. 

Again  Saf rane  's  lips  crinkled  to  laughter.  "  Smeef !  What 
a  droll  of  a  name.  Didst  hear,  sisters?  The  great  man  of 
iron  calls  himself  Smeef." 

The  girl  with  the  tawny  hair — she  was  taller  than  Saf  rane, 
and  the  reflection  of  her  gleamed  like  mother-of-pearl  in 
the  blue  water — looked  up  into  the  Frenchman's  pain-drawn 
face. 

"They  call  me  Pivoine.  Assist  me,  brother:  I  am  tired 
of  bathing." 

De  Gys,  leaning  heavily  on  his  spear,  stretched  out  trem- 
bling fingers.  He  saw,  as  he  assisted  Pivoine  towards  the 
bank,  that  her  feet  were  slender  and  white  as  her  slender 
hands,  that  the  auburn  pupils  of  her  eyes  matched  the 
abundant  auburn  of  her  veiling  hair. 

"Brother,  I  thank  you,"  said  Pivoine.  "Now,  will  you 
not  tell  me  your  name  and  what  brings  you  into  the  Country 
of  the  Flower?"  But  de  Gys  was  too  close  to  death  for 
speech:  only  the  last  strands  of  resolution  still  held  him  erect. 

"And  the  little  man,  the  little  man  who  wears  no  iron  on 
his  body,  and  no  hair  on  his  face,  how  is  he  called,  think  you, 
sister  Paquerette?"  Saf  rane,  still  waist  deep  in  water, 


LOVER  OF  PIVOINE 

linked  rounded  arms  with  the  girl  whose  tresses  were  like 
ripe  barley  in  moonshine. 

So  those  six  stood,  mirrored,  with  the  blue  centre  ring  of 
sky  and  the  white  outer  ring  of  tree-blossoms,  in  the  turf- 
girdled  pool.  And  even  at  that  first  encounter  Dicky — 
Skelvi  still  in  his  hand — knew  that  the  beauty  of  the  Flower 
Folk  was  sterile,  the  beauty  of  illusion. 

No  warm  humanity  beamed  from  the  violet  eyes  of  Sa- 
frane;  no  flush  of  womanhood  kindled  the  slenderness  of 
Pivoine  or  of  Paquerette.  They  were  perfect,  but  with  a 
bloodless  perfection:  visions,  such  as  weary  souls  fashion  for 
a  refuge  from  life.  Knowing  neither  fear  nor  modesty,  they 
knew  neither  vice  nor  virtue.  They  could  neither  sin 
greatly  nor  redeem  themselves  from  sinning;  neither  suffer 
greatly  nor  struggle  greatly  through  suffering  to  happiness. 
They  would  never  be  mothers  of  strong  human  children,  nor 
mates  for  strong  human  men. 

But  the  weary  soul  of  Cyprian  Beamish  looked  into  the 
soulless  sapphire  of  Paquerette's  eyes;  and — weary  no  more — 
found  that  refuge  from  life  which  it  had  so  long  been  seeking. 

"Angels  in  Paradise,"  murmured  Beamish.  Paquerette, 
curious  as  a  natural,  pale  as  some  ivory  bird  under  mauve 
silk  and  the  mantle  of  her  pale  gold  hair,  waded  up  to  him 
out  of  the  pool. 

"Paradise?"  mused  the  Long'un;  and  in  a  flash  of  spiritual 
illumination  learned  Truth.  This  must  be  the  paradise  of 
Beamishery:  dope-paradise;  its  blossoms,  dope-blossoms;  its 
pools,  dope-pools;  its  angels,  dope-angels.  Thus,  sterile  and 
useless,  might  humanity  have  remained  had  not  an  all-seeing 
God  sent  His  Serpent  into  Eden. 

"Assist  me,  man  of  iron,  I  also  am  tired  of  bathing" — 
Safrane  stepped  to  shore;  and  once  again,  taking  her  slender 
fingers  in  his  own,  Dicky  knew  that  power  which  is  given  even 
to  such  women  as  are  useless.  For  a  little  moment  his  strong 
soul,  too,  found  refuge  from  the  weariness  of  its  adventuring. 

So,  Phu-nan  and  the  trusty  ones  found  their  masters. 
"Vyl"  chuckled  the  trusty  ones.  "Vy  Bloo  Loy.  Vy 
oon 


290  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Only  the  Long'un  understood  that  chuckle;  only  the 
Long'un,  turning  furiously,  hand  at  sword-hilt,  saw  the  three 
of  the  East  as  they  fled  from  him;  only  the  Long'un  felt  the 
heart  burn  hot  under  his  breast-plate  for  shame  that  eyes  of 
brown  man  and  of  yellow  should  have  looked  upon  the 
glimmering  loveliness  of  Safrane  and  her  sisters.  For  even 
as  the  branches  rustled-to  behind  the  yellow  men  de  Gys 
crashed  headlong  at  Pivoine's  feet. 


"I  am  dying,"  thought  Rene  de  Gys.  "But  I  found  them, 
those  lost  countrywomen  I  came  so  far  to  seek.  And  my 
long  friend,  the  Colonel  Smith  of  old  days,  he  will  not  aban- 
don them  to  the  Harinesians.  Therefore,  I  can  die  in  peace." 

His  eyes  opened,  and  he  saw  Pivoine  bending  over  him. 

"La  pauvre  Pivoine"  thought  Rene  de  Gys,  "she  will  be 
sorry  that  I  should  die."  But  somehow  he  knew  that  no 
sorrow  dimmed  Pivoine's  auburn  eyes,  no  regret  fretted  her 
anxious  soul — only  a  great  bewilderment. 

He  could  hear  Pivoine's  voice;  the  old-fashioned  French 
was  music  to  his  failing  ears. 

"Death?"  said  Pivoine.  "I  have  never  seen  death,  man 
of  iron.  Gaston  reads  to  us  of  such  things  from  the  old 
books.  But  I,  I  do  not  believe.  I  think  he  is  only  hungry 
for  the  Flower." 

Now,  de  Gys  made  out  the  plumed  head  of  his  friend;  and 
beyond  the  plume,  incurious,  almost  happy,  the  face  of 
Beamish. 

"Sale  Sotialiste"  thought  the  Frenchman,  "he  is,  perhaps, 
glad  that  I  die."  He  heard  Long'un 's  voice :  " Have  you  then 
the  Flower,  Pivoine?"  heard  Pivoine  and  Paquerette  and 
Safrane  laugh;  saw  Pivoine's  slender  fingers  a-search  in  the 
girdle  of  her  garment,  saw  Beamish  snatch  at  them. 

The  sight  had  gone  from  his  eyes,  but  Long'un's  voice  still 
carried  down  through  the  engulfing  blackness.  Or  was  it 
only  Long'un's  voiceless  thought  that  penetrated  to  his 
voiceless  soul?  It  must  be  thought — no  sound  could  reach 
thus  far  into  the  caves  of  death. 


LOVER  OF  PIVOINE  291 

"De  Gys,  de  Gys — Beamish  says  it  will  cure  you.  I  don't 
believe  him.  They're  poison — these  purple  beans.  But  I 
can't  let  you  die  without  trying  them.  Beamish  has  eaten  of 
them  already.  He  is  doped — the  girls  are  doped.  Even  if 
you  do  not  die,  the  Flower  will  take  your  mind  from  you. 
And '  I  shall  be  left  alone — alone  with  Phu-nan  and  the 
Harinesians  in  this  valley  of  illusion.  .  .  .  But  I  can't 
let  you  die,  de  Gys." 

•The  Frenchman  felt  cool  fingers  prying  open  his  lips,  felt 
something  smooth  between  his  teeth.  .  .  .  His  teeth 
clenched  on  snow-chilled  mulberries.  ...  It  seemed 
very  good  to  die  in  Pivoine's  arms.  .  .  . 


"See,  already  he  breathed  again."  Pivoine,  kneeling  by 
the  unconscious  giant,  gazed  up  at  Dicky — and  laughed. 
"I  told  you  he  was  only  hungry.  I  will  give  him  more  of 
the  Flower  while  he  sleeps."  She  took  the  vast  head  on  her 
lap.  "And  when  he  wakes,  he  will  be  my  lover — for  to-night 
is  Moon-change." 

"And  you,  man  of  iron,  you  shall  be  my  lover,"  said 
Safrane.  "You,  too,  doubtless  are  hungry.  It  must  be 
very  tiresome  to  wear  those  iron  clothes."  She  drew  from 
her  girdle  a  little  box,  a  snuff-box  of  eighteenth-century 
workmanship  garlanded  with  paste  stones — a  box  such  as 
Melie  had  carried. 

The  Long'un  looked  down  on  the  white  hand,  on  the 
opened  box  and  the  seeds  within  the  box.  He  was  a  little  be- 
wildered: events  had  followed  each  other  so  rapidly — the 
finding  of  the  girls,  the  coming  of  the  yellow  men,  de  Gys' 
seizure,  Pivoine's  mention  of  the  Flower,  Beamish's  advice 
that  it  should  be  given. 

Beamish!  Long'un  felt  he  could  never  forgive  Beamish 
for  having  snatched  at  those  purple  seeds  when  Pivoine 
first  showed  them.  Mere  sight  of  the  Flower,  seemingly, 
had  wiped  all  but  the  vaguest  thought  of  his  patient  from 
the  doctor's  mind.  Now  he  and  Paquerette  stood 
talking  together,  oblivious  of  their  companions.  Pa- 


THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

querette  had  opened  her  Flower-box,  and  Beamish  was  eating 
from  it. 

"Let  us  go  away,  dear  sister,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish, 
"away  from  these  men  of  blood  and  iron." 

Long'un  saw  P^querette  open  a  pathway  through  the 
blossoms,  watched  the  couple  disappear. 

"Take,  Smeef!"  said  Safrane. 

Phu-nan  and  the  yellow  men,  gathering  courage,  had  crept 
back  to  the  pool. 

"Surely  you  will  eat,  Smeef,"  repeated  the  girl.  "I  would 
not  have  my  lover  fall  sick  at  Moon-change  as  our  brother 
of  the  red  beard."  She  pointed  a  finger  at  de  Gys,  still 
asleep,  head  on  Pivoine's  lap. 

And  suddenly,  strangely,  desire  to  taste  Flower  again 
blossomed  in  the  Long'un 's  mind.  But  he  must  not,  dared 
not.  The  safety  of  four  men,  perhaps  of  a  whole  folk,  hung 
on  his  decision. 

"I  do  not  eat  of  the  Flower,  Safrane,"  said  the  Long'un. 
He  spoke  kindly,  quietly;  as  reasoning  men  speak  to  the 
reasonless. 

"Of  what,  then,  do  you  eat?" 

"I  eat  rice  and  meat."  . 

"Meat,  brother?  That  is  the  flesh  of  birds  and  beasts, 
is  it  not?  How  strange!  Do  you  cook  the  flesh  in  fire,  as  is 
related  in  those  Old  Books  which  Gaston  reads  to  us  o'  nights?  " 

"But  of  course,  Safrane."  An  odd  thought  came  to  the 
man.  "Do  you,  then,  eat  of  nothing  but  the  Flower?" 

"But  of  course,  Smeef!"  The  girl  took  a  bean  from  her 
Flower-box,  crushed  it  between  white  teeth.  Again  desire 
for  the  Flower  blossomed  in  the  man's  mind;  again  he  thrust 
it  from  him;  but  now,  with  desire  for  the  Flower,  mingled  de- 
sire for  the  flower-like  beauty  of  Safrane. 

She  said,  looking  at  the  yellow  men:  "They  are  droll,  your 
three  serviteurs.  What  brings  you  and  them  into  the  Coun- 
try of  the  Flower?" 

He  answered,  curiously  at  a  loss :  "I  am  not  sure,  Safrane. 
I  think  we  came  for  the  sake  of  a  girl — a  girl  called  Melie. 
Do  you  remember  such  a  one?" 


LOVER  OF  PIVOINE  293 

"It  is  many  Moon-changes  since  sister  Melie  and  brother 
Lucien  grew  restless,"  said  Safrane.  "We  have  almost  for- 
gotten them."  She  took  another  bean  from  her  Flower-box. 
"But  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  into  this  country,  brother 
Smeef." 

Now,  for  one  fatal  moment,  Beamishery  had  its  way  with 
the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith.  Carelessly  he 
looked  at  the  unarmed  yellow  men,  at  Phu-nan,  faithful  in 
his  accoutrements.  Carelessly  he  looked  down  on  Great 
Bow  Skelvi  arched  across  green  turf.  Carelessly  he  looked 
up,  over  the  crocus-gold  of  Safrane 's  hair,  at  the  white  blos- 
soms of  the  woods.  Carelessly  he  remembered  all  their 
long  questing  after  the  white  women  beyond  the  moun- 
tains. .  .  . 

So  all  had  been  vain — horrors  endured,  fights  fought,  risks 
run,  dangers  surmounted.  Life  came  to  this  in  the  end — 
illusion.  Well!  he,  too,  would  have  his  share  of  illusion. 
Only  the  tiniest  share — one  hour  of  the  ecstasy  he  had  known 
in  Singapore. 

Safrane,  smiling,  proffered  the  seed  in  her  fingers.  With  a 
last  effort  of  will-power  he  shook  his  head.  She  came  close 
to  him.  She  took  the  purple  seed  between  the  crimson  of  her 
lips.  She  offered  him  the  seed  and  the  lips. 

Why  not?  It  would  be  ten  days — ten  whole  days — ere 
They  of  the  Bow  could  make  Quivering  Stone.  .  .  . 

All  the  fatal  procrastination  of  the  Britisher  called  to  the 
Long'un  as  he  bent  his  casqued  head,  took  the  girl  in  his 
arms.  All  the  pleasure-loving  American  in  him  responded 
to  the  girl  Safrane  as  she  lifted  her  lips  to  him.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  looked  deep  into  the  soulless  perfection  of  her  eyes. 
Then,  languidly,  their  lips  met.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  though  some  crimson  flower  had  kissed  him;  as 
though  pistil  of  that  flower  gave  the  cool  seed  between  his 
teeth. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH 

How  Bow  Skelvi,  Sword  Straight,  and  Brother  Cyprian  came  at 
Moon-change  to  Rock  o'  Dreams 

PHU-NAN,  still  in  his  harness,  squatted  to  drink  at  the 
pool.  He  and  the  yellow  men  had  eaten  the  pea- 
cock; and  now  the  yellow  men  were  sleeping.  They 
slept  heavily,  faces  to  the  turf,  backs  warmed  by  the  mid-day 
sun.  But  Phu-nan  knew  he  must  not  sleep. 

The  Moi  wanted  to  go  to  his  master.  His  master's  spirit 
might  be  already  with  his  ancestors.  His  master  had  strewn 
his  weapons  carelessly  on  the  turf.  He  had  gathered  up  his 
master's  weapons — the  moon-bladed  axes,  and  the  boar-spear, 
and  the  great  sharp  sword.  Bow  Skelvi,  too,  he  had  gathered 
up,  and  the  two  black  quivers  of  Skelvi,  and  the  telescope, 
and  the  sword  of  the  Long  Ingrit,  and  his  spear. 

Phu-nan  lapped  another  palmful  of  the  warm  water,  re- 
turned to  his  watch  by  the  pile  of  weapons  and  the  snoring 
yellow  men.  Phu-nan  looked  at  the  screen  of  blossoming 
branches  through  which  the  masters  had  disappeared  .  .  . 


Dicky,  waking  in  an  arbour  of  trellised  fragrance,  knew 
Safrane  beside  him. 

Right  arm,  outstretched,  pillowed  her  cheek;  left,  curved 
along  her  body,  rose  and  fell  to  her  gentle  breathing.  Sun 
and  blossom-shadow  played  like  butterflies  on  the  crocus- 
gold  mantle  of  her  hair,  on  the  girdled  silk  of  her  dress,  be- 
tween the  quiet  fingers.  The  mauve  garment  had  slipped 
down  from  one  shoulder — and  there,  too,  fluttered  the  butter- 
flies of  the  sun.  A  little  breeze  stirred  the  fragrance  of  their 
arbour;  every  now  and  then  a  blossom  sailed  noiselessly  down 

294 


ROCK  O'  DREAMS  295 

to  the  moss.  Between  them — winking  true-lover's  knot  of 
paste  stones — gleamed  the  Flower-box. 

Dicky  pressed  open  the  box,  saw  that  it  was  empty. 

Reasoning  had  almost  gone  from  his  mind.  The  past  was 
only  a  vague,  dark  shadow  behind  the  sun-kissed  glory  of  the 
present.  As  for  the  future — it  sufficed  that  he  was  with  Sa- 
frane,  in  the  Land  of  the  Flower.  He  bent  to  kiss  the  bare 
shoulder;  and  the  girl  turned  to  him,  linked  soft  arms  round 
his  neck,  drew  him  down  to  her.  "O  my  lover!"  she  whis- 
pered, "is  it  not  good  that  we  are  alive,  that  we  are  here  to- 
gether under  the  glorious  trees!  O  Smeef,  my  splendid 
lover!  kiss  me,  and  fold  me  in  your  arms." 

He  kissed  her.  He  folded  her  in  his  arms;  watched  the 
tired  head  droop,  as  flowers  droop,  against  his  breast.  But 
now,  holding  her,  recollection  stirred  in  his  drugged  brain: 
De  Gys  had  been  ill?  Where  could  de  Gys  be?  Where 
Beamish? 

Suddenly  Dicky  heard  a  voice  close  behind  him,  and 
turning  head  a  little,  he  saw,  as  through  a  screen  of  snow- 
flowers,  the  Frenchman  and  Pivoine.  The  two  tawny  heads 
held  close  together;  one  huge  arm  circled  Pivoine's  waist; 
one  huge  hand  rested  on  her  knees. 

"De  Gys!" — the  girl  spoke  softly,  using  the  quaint  old 
French  of  an  earlier  day — "why  dost  thou  weary  me  with 
questions?  I  do  not  know  how  the  brothers  and  sisters 
came  to  this  country.  Only  Gaston  cares  for  those  old 
things.  And,  O  de  Gys!  what  does  it  matter  whence  we 
came,  or  whither  we  go,  since  we  are  here  together,  since 
thou  art  cured  of  thy  hurt.  Let  us  forget  all  that  is  in  the 
past;  remember  only  to-day.  Let  us  be  happy.  There  is 
the  sunshine,  brother  de  Gys,  and  the  little  wind  among 
the  blossoms;  there  is  our  love,  and  there  is  the  Flower. 
Eat  of  it  again,  brother  de  Gys." 

Dicky  saw  that  de  Gys  ate  three  of  the  purple  seeds;  and 
after  that  only  a  murmur  of  love-words  came  from  behind  the 
screen  of  snow-blossoms.  Then  he  was  aware  of  Beamish. 

Beamish  was  with  Pdquerette.  He  talked  up  to  her: 
every  now  and  then  her  fingers  played  with  his  hair. 


296  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Dear  sister  Pdquerette,"  whispered  Cyprian  Beamish, 
44 it  is  so  jolly  to  forget  the  world." 

"What  world,  brother  Cyprian?"  asked  the  girl. 

"The  world  without — the  stupid,  cruel  world  that  mocks 
at  such  as  I  am — the  world  that  does  not  appreciate  its 
finer  souls." 

"Is  not  the  world,  then,  beautiful?" 

"Beautiful!"  Beamish  laughed — the  silly,  superior  laugh 
of  the  self-styled  intellectual.  "Beautiful!  There  is  no 
beauty  in  the  world  without — only  a  few  fine  souls,  souls 
such  as  mine.  Listen — I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  Long  ago, 
before  I  came  to  this  country,  I  planned  great  things  for  the 
world.  I  wanted  this  Flower  we  have  eaten  together  for  all 
humanity.  But  now  I  know  that  humanity  is  not  worthy  of 
the  Flower.  Only  you  and  I  are  worthy,  dear  sister  Paquer- 
ette — you  because  you  are  beautiful,  and  I  because  I  am  good." 

"I  am  glad  thou  thinkest  me  beautiful,  brother  Cyprian," 
said  the  pale  girl. 

Beamish  drew  her  down  to  him,  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 
"You  are  more  than  beautiful  to  me,  Paquerette.  You  and 
your  sisters  and  this  Land  of  the  Flower  are  all  my  jolliest 
dreams." 

Paquerette  answered  Beamish's  kisses;  and  after  that  only 
murmur  of  their  love-words  came  to  Dicky's  ears.  .  . 

Gradually  the  love-murmurs  among  the  branches  died 
away. 


Phu-nan,  still  guarding  the  weapons,  saw  the  branches 
tremble,  saw  his  master  hold  them  aside  for  Pivoine. 

The  sun  was  already  westering  behind  coral-tinged  trees. 
Shadows,  creeping  quietly  over  turf,  already  reached  the  edge 
of  the  pool.  The  little  breeze  of  afternoon  had  folded  her 
wings  for  the  night.  Tiny  clouds,  luminous  as  pearls,  hung 
becalmed  in  the  azure  circle  of  the  sky. 

"  Thy  servant  waits  faithfully"  said  Pivoine. 

Phu-nan  picked  Sword  Straight  from  the  turf,  made  to  belt 
it  on  his  master. 


ROCK  O'  DREAMS  297 

But  de  Gys  waved  the  sharp  blade  from  him. 

"  In  this  country,  Phu-nan,  I  shall  not  be  permitted  to  use 
my  weapons.  Take  my  sword  if  it  pleases  you,  the  axes,  too, 
and  the  spear.  I  have  no  need  of  them.  But  help  buckle 
this  harness." 

"The  madness  of  the  White  Tiger  has  seized  him  after 
fever,"  thought  Phu-nan,  as  he  re-fastened  the  chains  of  de 
Gys'  breast-plate,  took  the  helmet  his  master  refused  to 
wear.  "Nevertheless,  I  am  glad  that  he  is  not  with  his 
ancestors." 

Dicky  with  Safrane,  Beamish  with  Paquerette,  came  slowly 
out  of  the  wood;  and  the  three  adventurers  spoke  together. 

Said  Rene  de  Gys:  "This  is  a  very  wonderful  place  that 
we  have  been  sent  into,  cher  ami." 

Beamish  interrupted:  "To  me  it  is  not  wonderful,  because 
I  have  always  known  I  should  win  to  it  in  the  end.  Courage 
and  high  ideals  always  justify  themselves,  even  before  men 
such  as  you." 

"And  before  God,"  said  Rene  de  Gys — showing  the 
ancient  crucifix  they  had  found  among  the  rocks.  (For  in 
Rene  de  Gys'  Flower-crazed  mind  persisted  the  delusion  of 
death;  he  had  been  dead,  and  this  was  the  re-birth  in  Para- 
dise promised  by  his  Faith.) 

Only  Dicky,  as  a  child  somehow  aware  of  danger,  looked 
towards  the  waking  yellow  men,  and  asked:  "Why  are 
these  Harinesians  here?" 

"Apparently,  le  bon  Dieu  has  forgiven  them  their  colour- 
ing," said  de  Gys;  and  Beamish,  not  understanding,  added, 
"They  and  Phu-nan  are  necessary  to  me — why  should  I  send 
them  away?" 

Paquerette  laughed.  "These  must  be  the  Tonkineses  of 
whom  Gaston  reads  to  us.  I  cannot  remember  all  that 
Gaston  says,  but  I  know  that  between  us  and  the  Tonkineses 
beyond  Quivering  Stone  is  peace.  Therefore,  if  your  servi- 
teurs  are  necessary  to  you,  let  them  follow  in  our  train  to 
Rocker  de  Reves" 

She  took  Beamish 's  arm,  and  led  off  into  the  coral-tinged 
woodlands.  Single-file,  followed  the  tall  Pivoine  and  the 


298  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

burly  de  Gys.    Lightly,  a  song  at  her  lips,  followed  Safrane. 
Only  Dicky  and  the  coloured  men  still  remained  by  the  pool. 

"I  have  forgotten  something,"  thought  Dicky.  "Some- 
thing very  important."  Phu-nan  came  towards  him,  carry- 
ing the  forgotten  thing.  "Of  course,"  he  thought.  "My  bow, 
my  Great  Bow  Skelvi";  and  grasping  the  seven-foot  weapon, 
made  off  after  the  others. 

But  Phu-nan,  who  knew  that  Skelvi  without  her  quivers 
was  useless  as  a  white  man  without  his  meat,  made  signs  to 
the  trusty  ones  that  they  should  take  up  yet  more  burdens — 
arrows  and  swords,  and  moon-bladed  axes,  and  the  telescope, 
and  Beamish's  bundles,  and  boar-spears.  And  when  the  two 
made  signs  of  refusal,  the  Moi — childishly  delighted  at  his 
new  power — waved  Sword  Straight  before  their  frightened 
eyes. 

***** 

Beamish  and  Paquerette  made  their  way  through  the 
woods  till  they  came  to  an  open  space  of  harebell-flowering 
turf.  Here  they  waited  for  their  companions. 

The  long  Floralian  twilight  had  begun.  Shadows  length- 
ened across  the  turquoise  shimmer  of  the  harebells. 
Humming-birds  flashed  swift  jewels  through  the  tepid  air.  In 
front — the  way  Paquerette  whispered  to  him  that  they  must 
go — Beamish  saw  a  high  semi-circle  of  trees,  smooth  of  trunk, 
drooping  boughs  heavy  with  orange-coloured  blossoms.  Under 
the  trees,  winding  sun-crimsoned  among  their  sun-sabled  boles, 
ran  glassy  water-courses.  People  in  mauve  and  white  gar- 
ments were  dancing  and  singing  by  the  water-courses. 

"The  simple  life,"  thought  Beamish.     "How  jolly!" 

He  felt  terribly  pleased  with  Paquerette,  with  Floralia — 
above  everything,  with  himself.  All  the  furtive  arrogance  in 
his  fuddled  mind  chuckled  to  think  how  he  had  triumphed 
over  the  Long'un  and  de  Gys.  The  Flower  wrapped  him  in 
delusions.  Looking  back,  through  the  haze  of  the  Flower,  he 
saw  Negrini  dying,  Si-tuk's  grin,  the  rapids  on  the  Nam 
Khane,  Gates  of  Harinesia,  City  Bu-ro,  as  perils  surmounted 
solely  by  his  own  marvellous  tenacity  of  will. 


ROCK  O'  DREAMS  299 

"They  ought  to  think  themselves  uncommonly  lucky  to 
have  had  a  man  like  me  with  them,"  decided  the  doctor. 
"Without  me,  they  would  never  have  got  halfway." 

"They,"  looking  too  absurd  for  words  in  their  militarist 
trappings,  emerged  from  the  woods. 

"My  dear  Long'un,  you  won't  need  that  silly  toy  here," 
said  Cyprian  Beamish,  indicating  Skelvi  with  contemptuous 
fingers.  "This  community  does  not  make  war  to  please 
arrogant  capitalists." 

"/  don't  like  war,"  pouted  Dicky,  "but  I  like  my  bow." 
He  clung  to  the  weapon — his  last  instincts  at  bay  with 
illusion. 

Cyprian  Beamish  only  laughed.  "Let  him  keep  his  toy," 
thought  Beamish,  "he'll  soon  tire  of  it." 

Safrane  laughed,  too.  It  was  very  droll  to  Safrane,  this 
language  she  could  not  understand.  Kun-mer's  trusty  ones 
heard  that  laugh  as  they  staggered  on  to  the  harebell- 
flowering  turf  with  their  burdens. 

They  set  off  again;  followed  glassy  water-courses  towards 
the  setting  sun.  Birds  sang  from  the  orange-coloured  blos- 
soms overhead;  songs  of  human  voices  mingled  with  the 
songs  of  the  birds.  But  the  human  songs  receded  further  and 
further  into  the  distance;  and  as  the  sun  sank  lower  and 
lower,  now  golden  among  golden  branches,  now  ruddy  behind 
the  sable  pillars  of  the  tree-trunks,  even  the  song  of  the  birds 
grew  mute;  till  nothing  could  be  heard  in  the  twilit  forest 
save  the  rustle  of  the  girls'  garments  and  the  clink  of  Hari- 
nesian  mail. 

At  last  they  emerged  from  the  forest;  stood  gazing  at 
that  natural  temple  which  Gaston  the  old  poet  had  named 
Rocker  de  Reves. 

An  avenue  of  smooth  turf  sloped  gently  upwards  from 
their  feet.  Tall  slender  trees,  cypress-shaped  but  gay  with 
plum-coloured  foliage,  hedged  the  avenue.  Midway  of  it, 
on  a  natural  terrace  of  white  marble,  spurtled  fountains. 
At  summit,  Rock  o'  Dreams  loomed  ivory  against  opal  ma- 
trix of  sky. 

As  the  six  stood  gazing,  a  taper  sickle  of  moon  floated  up 


300  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

behind  the  trees,  mingled  her  silver  with  the  opals  of  the  twi- 
light. 

Pivoine,  pointing  to  the  moon,  whispered  in  her  lover's  ear: 
"Moon-change!  O  de  Gys,  de  Gys!"  But  though  she 
spoke  the  very  words  with  which  Melie  had  given  herself  to 
him — long  and  long  ago  in  a  tangled  garden  at  Saigon — de 
Gys  could  not  remember.  .  .  . 

Two  by  two  the  lovers  made  their  way  up  the  avenue  till 
they  came  to  the  terrace;  two  by  two  they  halted  at  the 
spurtling  fountains.  And  now,  for  the  first  time,  the  three 
looked  upon  living  Flower. 

The  great  basins  round  the  fountains  were  waist-deep,  the 
water  in  them  hot  as  a  girl  could  bear  on  her  naked  limbs. 
The  thick  stems  of  the  Flower  rose  man-high  above  the 
water  of  the  basins.  All  the  way  up  the  stems,  sprouting 
hollyhock-wise  from  water-level,  Flower-heads  clustered — 
their  serrated  petals  quivering  like  enormous  brown  butter- 
flies in  the  young  moonlight.  And  from  the  centre  of  each 
Flower-head  drooped  its  purple  pod,  finger-long,  heavy  with 
the  ripened  beans  of  illusion. 

"To-morrow  is  Flower-Harvest,"  said  Paquerette.  "'Tis 
pity  that  the  Flowers  be  not  more." 

"Will  there,  then,  not  be  enough  for  me?"  asked  brother 
Cyprian. 

"Have  no  fear,  brother,"  answered  Paquerette.  "We  are 
but  few  in  this  place,  and  the  Harvest  will  suffice." 

"That  is  well,  dear  sister,"  said  the  man  who  had  once 
planned  to  garner  this  Flower  for  all  humanity. 

While  they  yet  spoke  Phu-nan  and  his  burden-bearers 
joined  them.  Twilight  opals  darkened  to  night,  stars  clus- 
tered thicker  than  jasmine  buds  round  the  young  moon,  as  the 
three  of  the  East  toiled  painfully  after  the  lovers — up  the 
marble  terraces — across  the  golden  crocuses  of  that  saffron 
mead  which  de  Gys'  telescope  had  revealed  to  Dicky  from 
Quivering  Stone — towards  Rock  o'  Dreams. 

Rosy  lights  gleamed  from  between  the  columns  of  the  Rock, 
and  they  could  see  shadows  of  people  disappearing  between 
the  lights, 


ROCK  O'  DREAMS  301 

"To-night,"  said  Safrane,  "Gaston  reads  to  us  from  the 
history-books."  Pi voine,  overhearing,  laughed.  " My  lover 
de  Gys  will  listen  gladly.  All  this  noon  he  could  speak  only 
of  the  old  things.  Is  it  not  so,  laggard  lover?" 

"Old  things  are  good  things,"  said  Rene  de  Gys.  "It  is 
pleasant  to  remember  the  old  things  now  that  one  has  out- 
lived them." 

But  Cyprian  Beamish,  eater  of  the  Flower,  knew  that  all 
old  things  were  bad  things,  and  only  new  things  good. 
Cyprian  Beamish,  ankle-deep  among  the  saffron  crocuses, 
looked  on  the  rosy  lights,  on  the  people  passing  between  the 
lights,  soul-certain  that  here — at  last — he  had  found  that 
second  country  of  his  dreams. 

By  his  own  virtue,  and  not  by  the  prowess  of  any  swash- 
buckling militarist,  that  dream-country  had  been  made  true 
to  him.  Here,  in  the  land  of  perpetual  peace — had  not 
Paquerette  said  that  there  was  peace  between  them  and  the 
Tonkineses? — he  would  find  his  people.  Here  would  be 
neither  bibbing  of  wine  nor  gorging  of  flesh.  Here,  all 
animal  passions  tamed,  all  work  abolished,  all  the  per- 
nicious creeds  of  individualism  abandoned,  all  fruits  of  the 
earth  shared  as  he  and  Paquerette  had  shared  the  contents  of 
her  Flower-box,  Man  and  Woman,  refined  to  their  ultimate 
destiny,  might  dance  away  the  Golden  Age.  .  .  . 

So  those  three  of  the  West — de  Gys  assured  of  death, 
Beamish  glorying  in  his  own  rectitude,  and  Dicky  still  cling- 
ing, as  a  child  somehow  aware  of  danger,  to  Great  Bow 
Skelvi — passed  with  those  three  who  were  neither  of  the  East 
nor  of  the  West,  but  of  the  Flower  Folk  beyond  Quivering 
Stone,  into  Rock  o'  Dreams. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SIXTH 

Children  of  illusion 

TWO  by  two,  the  lovers  passed  through  the  pillared 
entrance  of  Rock  o'  Dreams  into  the  Hall  of  Old 
Things.  Phu-nan,  fearful  of  so  many  phalangsSs, 
and  his  yellow  men,  muttering  together,  "Bloo  Loy  !  Bloo 
Loy  !  Vy  Bloo  Loy  /"  squatted,  seeing  but  unseen,  in  the 
shadows  without. 

Seven  jets  of  natural  gas,  their  perennial  flames  shimmer- 
ing quietest  rose  from  seven  high-scolloped  niches  in  the 
marble  walls,  illumined  the  Hall,  revealing  a  company  of 
four  hundred  people — pale,  lovely  youths  in  loose  white 
togas — pale,  lovely  girls  in  girdled  garments  of  mauve  silk — 
reclined  luxurious  on  long  cushions  of  mauve. 

At  end  of  the  Hall,  on  an  alabaster  throne,  sat  Gaston  the 
poet.  Behind  him,  far  in  shadows,  glimmered  the  Old 
Things,  the  Things  that  had  made  Floralia:  eighteenth- 
century  muskets,  bayonets  from  Bayonne  rusted  home  in 
their  smooth- worn  bores;  flintlock  pistols;  heavy  curved 
cavalry  sabres;  cutlasses  more  ancient  than  Trafalgar; 
powder-horns;  ram-rods;  tarnished  epaulettes;  swan-neck 
spurs  with  rowels  big  as  crown-pieces;  the  larger  trophies 
piled  carelessly  on  the  marble  floor — the  smaller  hung  in  pairs 
from  the  blunted  spikes  of  those  chevaux  de  frise  which 
had  once  blocked  the  glacis-ditch  of  Warm  Water  Ford. 

Nearly  a  hundred  years  had  gone  by  since  hairy  eyes  last 
squinted  along  those  musket-barrels,  since  hairy  hands — the 
hands  that  fought  with  Minh  Mhang  and  with  Thien  Thri — 
last  gripped  the  corded  hilts  of  cutlass  and  sabre.  Of  all  the 
Flower  Folk,  Gaston  alone  still  understood  the  usages  of  those 
Old  Things.  And  he  only  as  men,  delving  in  history-books, 

302 


CHILDREN  OF  ILLUSION  303 

understand  the  warriors  who  made  history — seeing,  not  the 
torments  endured,  but  the  Spirit  of  Romance  which  con- 
quered torment. 

For  the  rest  of  the  Flower  Folk — Gaston 's  children  as  he 
sometimes  called  them — had  outgrown  Romance,  even  as 
they  had  outgrown  Gaston.  Sometimes — as  now  at  Moon- 
change — they  came  to  the  Hall;  lay  murmuring,  pale  lip  to 
pale  lip,  pale  arms  twining  pale  necks,  while  he  read  to  them 
from  the  history -books :  but  their  souls  could  no  longer  re- 
spond to  the  history-books,  nor  to  the  soul  of  that  old  man — 
gray-moust ached,  broad  of  forehead,  deep  of  voice  despite 
the  Flower  which  had  dulled  his  eyes  and  sapped  the  strength 
of  his  body. 

He  alone  of  the  Flower  Folk  rose,  gathering  his  toga 
about  him,  as  the  six  entered,  saying: 

"Our  sisters  Paquerette,  Pivoine,  and  Safrone  bring  strange 
lovers;  nevertheless,  let  us  make  them  welcome." 

The  remainder  of  the  company  looked  up  incuriously  at 
Beamish  and  the  two  mailed  men;  made  place  for  them  and 
their  ladies.  The  mailed  men  did  not  seem  strange  to  the 
Children  of  the  Flower — because  so  many  such  illusions 
peopled  their  dreams  between  Moon-fade  and  Moon- 
change. 

Gaston,  reseating  himself  on  the  throne,  took  a  tattered 
manuscript  from  the  arm  of  it  and  began  to  read.  Listening 
to  those  cadenced  words,  occasional  glimpses  of  sanity 
flickered  through  the  Long'un's  Flower-crazed  consciousness; 
but  sometimes,  when  he  would  have  asked  a  question, 
Safrane's  cool  fingers  closed  his  lips,  and  sometimes,  blurring 
consciousness,  the  crocus-gold  of  her  hair  veiled  his  eyes; 
and  always,  extinguishing  sanity,  the  rare  perfume  of  the 
Flower  mounted  to  his  nostrils:  so  that  all  the  history  of 
Floralia  seemed  a  dream  to  him — even  as,  to  Beamish,  mur- 
muring with  Paquerette,  it  seemed  a  dream  come  true,  and 
to  de  Gys,  silent  by  Pivoine's  side,  a  vision  vouchsafed  to 
him  after  death. 

"Brothers  and  sisters,  great-grandchildren  of  those  royal 
adventurers  who  conquered  Annam,"  began  the  old  man, 


304  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"once  again  between  a  Moon-change  and  a  Moon-change 
that  Flower  which  I,  Gaston  de  Vailly,  found  in  the  old  days 
—the  days  that  only  I  remember — has  blossomed  in  its 
Basins.  To-morrow  we  will  garner  its  seeds,  labouring 
together  for  one  whole  day,  joyously,  knowing  that  by  our 
communal  labours  all  our  people  shall  be  full-fed  till  next 
month's  garnering 

"It  is  a  great  boon,  this  Flower  which  I  found  for  you.  By 
its  miraculous  influence  we  are  delivered  from  all  the  sordid 
tyrannies  of  the  flesh — from  toil  and  sweat,  from  the  slaying 
of  beasts  for  our  food,  and  the  treading  of  the  grape  for  our 
drink,  even  from  death." 

"Jolly,"  murmured  Beamish's  voice  in  Dicky's  Flower- 
crazed  ear. 

"But  being  thus  delivered,"  continued  Gaston,  "lest  we 
quite  forget  those  royal  adventurers  whose  seed  we  are,  it  is 
my  custom — once  every  thirty  days — to  tell  you  a  little  of 
their  story  You  will  remember  how  I  told  you,  last  Moon- 
change,  of  the  death  of  Gia  Long,  King  of  Annam,  and  of  the 
persecutions  our  ancestors  endured  at  the  hands  of  King 
Minn  Mhang  and  of  King  Thien  Thri.  You  will  remember 
how  those  that  were  left  of  them,  brave  though  they  were, 
decided  upon  flight." 

"It  was  true,  friend,"  muttered  de  Gys.  "You  know  now 
that  it  was  true — the  story  I  told  you  on  earth."  Gaston 
continued : 

"One  night,  secretly,  they  held  conclave;  and  next  morn- 
ing, in  the  gray  of  dawn,  set  out  for  the  sea.  But  they  never 
made  the  sea.  Word  was  brought  treacherously  to  King 
Thien  Thri;  and  he  sent  a  great  host  of  Chineses  in  pursuit. 
So,  having  no  fear  for  themselves,  but  fearing  lest  the  women 
and  children  who  were  with  them  should  fall  prey  to  the 
Chineses,  our  ancestors  turned  back  from  the  sea;  and  after 
many  tribulations,  after  much  fierce  fighting  with  naked 
brown  men,  the  merest  scratch  from  whose  poisoned  arrows 
meant  death,  arrived  at  last  in  this  place  where  we  now  live. 
But  even  here  they  were  not  allowed  to  be  at  peace.  There 
came  mailed  Tonkineses  from  beyond  the  Black  Egg,  that 


CHILDREN  OF  ILLUSION  305 

same  Egg  which  we  still  see  from  Warm  Water  Ford.  Our 
ancestors,  who  were  valiant  men,  fought  valiantly  with  the 
Tonkineses,  killing  thousands  of  them  with  these  Old  Things. 
And  in  the  end,  having  conquered  the  Tonkineses,  our 
ancestors  made  a  treaty  with  them.  For  the  Tonkineses 
were  greatly  afraid  of  our  ancestors." 

At  that  a  vague  murmur  troubled  Dicky's  ears;  he  recog- 
nized Beamish's  voice.  "Dear  sister,"  murmured  Beamish, 
"I  do  not  like  this  story.  It  is  not  right  that  Gaston  should 
even  speak  of  war — lest  by  so  doing  he  encourage  it."  But 
Gaston  went  on: 

"Whether  the  mailed  Tonkineses  beyond  the  Egg  be  still 
afraid  of  us,  or  whether  they,  too,  have  found  the  Flower — I 
know  not.  Perhaps  that  blue  bird  from  whose  beak  I 
watched  the  first  purple  seed  of  the  Flower  fall  to  earth  by 
this  Rock  o'  Dreams  carried  it  over  the  whole  world.  Let  us 
hope  so,  brothers  and  sisters.  But  do  not  let  us  ever  forget 
the  names  of  our  splendid  forebears,  by  whose  strong  right 
hands,  and  by  whose  prowess  with  these  Old  Things  behind 
me,  we  are  enabled  to  enjoy  the  Flower  in  perpetual  peace." 

Gaston  turned  to  the  last  pages  of  the  tattered  manu- 
script, to  the  soiled,  stained  muster-rolls. 

"I  will  now  read  you  the  tally  of  your  ancestors,  of  the 
men  who  fought  so  valiantly." 

Followed — and  to  this  de  Gys  listened  as  a  strong  man 
who  takes  reward  in  Paradise  for  the  work  he  was  not  allowed 
to  accomplish  upon  earth — the  names  of  Behaine's  adven- 
turers, of  those  who  were  lost  in  the  mists  of  the  dark  years, 
the  years  of  Minh  Mhang  and  of  Thien  Thri. 

"The  Marquesses  Brancard,  Marival,  Lorillard,"  read 
Gaston.  "Jeanne,  wife  of  the  Marquess  Brancard — Simone 
their  daughter.  These  two,  among  all  the  women,  were  most 
assiduous  in  tending  the  wounded.  ;The  Counts  Vailly  and 
la  Fere.  The  Holy  Fathers  of  the  Church— La  Motte,  Fursy, 
Calentour.  The  captains  Dulac,  Fontaine,  Dorier.  The 
Sergeants  Le  Boeuf,  Diderot,  Maresquier.  The  common 
soldiers  Marchand,  Tallier,  Granlac." 

Now,  had  he  not  known  himself  dead,  de  Gys  would  fain 


306  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

have  stood  to  attention;  for  there  came  into  Gaston 's  voice 
a  deep  religious  note  as  he  read: 

"All  those  above  recorded,  being  safely  returned,  give 
thanks  to  Almighty  God  for  their  deliverance;  and  pray  daily 
to  His  Son  and  to  the  Virgin  Mary  for  the  noble  souls  of 
their  comrades,  hereafter  inscribed,  who  fell  fighting  against 
the  mailed  heathen  in  the  black  forests  of  the  Tonkineses. 
Unto  them,  and  unto  them  only,  is  the  peace  of  Eternal 
Life." 

But  the  Flower  Folk,  mazed  in  the  false  peace  of  illusion, 
the  Flower  Folk  who  had  forgotten  their  forefathers'  gods 
even  as  they  had  forgotten  their  forefathers'  prowess  and 
their  glorious  dead,  paid  no  heed;  only  murmured,  pale  lip 
to  pale  lip,  pale  arms  twining  pale  necks,  among  the  soft, 
luxurious  cushions. 


Reading  finished,  Gaston  closed  the  roll;  laid  it  away  with 
the  history-books  at  the  foot  of  his  throne;  rose — strangely 
dignified  for  all  that  the  Flower  had  set  its  mark  on  him;  and 
made  his  way  slowly  across  the  Hall. 

Safrane  rustled  up  from  her  cushion,  and  they  spoke  to- 
gether. Still  in  a  dream,  Dicky  saw  de  Gys  and  Beamish 
rise  to  their  feet;  imitated  them. 

Grave  presentations  ensued;  then  explanations,  which  the 
poet  accepted  as  though  the  arrival  of  three  strangers  and 
their  retinue  at  Rock  o'  Dreams  were  the  most  ordinary  of 
occurrences. 

"They  were  very  welcome,"  said  Gaston.  "Since  they  had 
come  to  the  Land  of  the  Flower,  they  must  make  free  of  all 
that  the  Land  offered.  Safrane,  Pivoine,  and  Paquerette 
would  array  them  in  the  old  silks.  Even  I  do  not  know 
how  our  ancestors  made  these  silks,"  explained  Gaston. 
"But  I  have  read  that  one  year  great  worms  came  to  the 
outer  woods :  silkworms,  the  Old  Books  say.  And  it  seems 
that  our  ancestors  made  from  them  sufficient  store  of  these 
garments  for  their  descendants." 

"The  sisters  would  show  them  to  their  sleeping-chambers; 


CHILDREN  OF  ILLUSION  307 

and  perhaps,  in  the  morning,  they  would  give  him  their  Old 
Things.  Their  servants  could  sleep  in  the  Hall.  There  would 
be  plenty  of  cushions  for  them  once  the  brothers  and  sisters 
had  departed." 

Even  as  Gaston  spoke,  the  Flower  Folk,  quiet  as  dreams, 
began  to  move  away. 

"Why  don't  they  speak  to  us?"  asked  Beamish. 

Paquerette,  laying  a  finger  to  her  lips,  smiled  indulgently : 
"Because  it  is  Moon-change,  brother  Cyprian.  And  who, 
at  Moon-change,  thinks  of  aught  but  love?" 

Pivoine  whispered  something  to  de  Gys;  and  the  four 
melted  away  into  the  moonlight. 

Now,  seeing  that  only  Gaston,  Dicky,  and  Safrane  were 
left  in  the  roseate  emptiness  of  the  Hall,  Phu-nan  and  the 
trusty  ones — with  a  loud  clatter  and  clanging  of  armour — 
staggered  wearily  through  the  entrance. 

"He  is  very  strong,  your  brown  serviteur"  said  Safrane — 
and  there  was  admiration  in  her  voice. 

"Strong!"  Dicky  laughed.  "Not  so  strong  as  I  am. 
See!"  He  took  Skelvi  from  the  cushions,  flexed  it  almost  to 
full  cast.  "My  brown  serviteur  cannot  do  that."  But  the 
belly  of  Skelvi  seemed  to  have  grown  stubborn  under  his 
hand;  the  gut  of  Skelvi  rasped  his  thumb  and  forefinger. 
Disappointed  as  a  child,  he  unflexed  the  bow;  let  it  fall  among 
the  cushions. 

"Come,  Smeef,"  whispered  Safrane.  "Gaston  goes  to 
dream  in  the  moonlight;  and  we — we,  lover  mine" — she 
opened  her  white  arms  to  him — "  go  to  dream  better  dreams 
than  his.  For,  O  Smeef,  I  think  that  those  three  old  gods  of 
whom  Gaston  spoke  to-night,  whom  we,  being  happy,  no 
longer  need  to  worship,  must  have  sent  you  to  me  this  Moon- 
change." 

Dicky,  uncomprehending,  stared  long  at  Safrane's  open 
arms,  at  the  pale,  beautiful  face,  rosy  in  the  dim  light  under 
its  nimbus  of  crocus-golden  hair. 

"What  gods?"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  do  not  know  their  names."  She  came  closer.  "But 
one  was  older  than  Gaston,  and  the  other  was  the  son  of  the 


308  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

old  god,  and  the  third,  I  think,  was  a  girl  even  as  I  am.  But 
perhaps  she  was  only  a  ghost.  How  should  I  know?  " 

Now,  for  a  moment,  recollection  flickered  up  in  the  man's 
Flower-crazed  mind.  Old  words,  words  heard  in  childhood, 
came  back  to  him:  "All  manner  of  sin  shall  be  forgiven." 
There  had  been  other  words — words  about  blasphemy — about 
blasphemy  against  a  ghost.  .  .  .  But  he  could  not  re- 
member the  old  words. 

"Come,  Smeef,"  repeated  the  girl  Safrane,  and  laid  a  cool 
hand  on  his  wrist. 

So  those  twain  passed  out  together;  so  she  led  him  round 
Rock  o'  Dreams,  through  the  young  moonlight,  to  her  cham- 
ber. 

Jets  of  quiet  gas  illumined  the  chamber,  shone  roseate  on 
its  marble  walls,  on  the  smooth  floor,  and  the  cushioned  couch 
of  alabaster  .  .  .  shone  roseate  on  doffed  harness  of 
that  sleep-mazed,  Flower-crazed  thing  which  had  once  been 
the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith. 


Phu-nan  also  slept,  brown  among  white  cushions  in  the 
Hall  of  the  Old  Things. 

But  the  Harinesians  did  not  sleep.  All  night  they  prowled 
about  the  Rock,  handling  the  fire-weapons  and  the  cutlasses, 
memorizing  the  numbers  of  the  Bloo  Loy,  the  weakness  of 
their  men  and  the  beauty  of  their  women,  peering  at  the  Old 
Things,  peering  at  the  Old  Books,  peering  into  the  sleeping- 
chambers.  Their  eyes,  as  they  peered  into  the  sleeping- 
chambers,  were  red  and  hungry  with  desire;  their  hands, 
as  they  returned  from  the  sleeping-chambers,  itched  to  take 
Phu-nan 's  sword  and  thrust  it  into  his  side. 

"Yet  it  were  better  not  to  kill  him,"  whispered  the  one, 
"lest  his  death  put  Bearer  of  Skelvi  and  Bearer  of  Straight 
on  their  guard." 

"Aye,"  whispered  the  other.  "Better  go  swiftly,  secretly 
to  Kun-mer.  Let  Them  of  the  Bow  kill  the  four  together. 
If  we  but  take  the  Great  Bow  and  the  Great  Sword  with  us, 
Akiou  and  his  men  will  have  an  easy  task." 


CHILDREN  OF  ILLUSION  309 

"Nay,"  answered  the  one.  "My  back  aches  enough  al- 
ready with  burden-bearing.  But  the  string  of  Skelvi " — eyes 
indicated  the  Bow,  arched  among  the  cushions  where  Dicky 
had  let  it  fall — "let  us  sever  with  an  axe-blade,  so  that  it 
speak  no  more." 

Skelvi,  spring  rigid  as  the  gut  parted,  made  no  sound  among 
the  cushions,  nor  did  the  yellow  men's  naked  feet  make  any 
sound  as  they  sped  away  from  Rock  o'  Dreams. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH 

The  Harvest  of  the  Flower 

THE  bloodless  semblance  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  Man  stood 
alone  in  glorious  sunshine  by  the  spurtling  fountains  of 
Bassins  de  la  Fleur.  Its  body  was  paler  than  the 
white  silk  toga  which  draped  it  to  the  knee.  The  veins  of  its 
delicate  hands  and  feet  showed  as  blue-purple  against  ala- 
baster. Its  lips  were  hairless ;  thin  golden  tresses  drooped  in 
sparse  ringlets  to  its  soft  shoulders.  It  carried  no  weapons; 
it  knew  neither  vice  nor  virtue,  neither  clean  abstinence  nor 
clean  desire.  Only  its  eyes  still  showed  the  vestige  of  a  soul. 
But  the  soul  had  receded  deep  into  the  blank  blue  pupils 
of  those  eyes,  hidden  itself  in  illusions.  .  .  . 

Scarcely  four  moon-quarters  had  waxed  and  waned  since 
this  semblance  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  Man  came  to  Floralia; 
since  it  helped  sickle  those  clustered  spikes  whose  re-growth 
already  peeped  hyacinth-wise  above  the  warm  water  of  the 
Basins.  Scarcely  four  moon-quarters  of  the  Flower  had 
sufficed  to  steal  away  all  but  the  last  instincts  of  its  manhood. 
Yet  once  this  pallid  thing  had  been  the  Honourable 
Richard  Assheton  Smith.  Once  it  had  responded,  as  a 
strung  bow  responds,  to  every  clean  heart-pull  of  fighting 
humanity;  thrilled  to  every  touch  of  manhood,  flexed  splen- 
didly to  the  hand  of  friendship,  flexed  courageously  in  the 
face  of  danger.  Then  this  semblance  of  a  Man  had  been  as 
a  strung  bow,  the  bow  of  its  fight  ing  ancestors.  Now 
Beamishery  had  almost  unstrung  it. 

All  the  fine  stubbornness  of  Anglo-Saxondom,  of  its  meat-fed 
mothers  and  its  ale-fed  sires,  of  those  who  bled  for  individual 
liberty  yet  made  the  Law  which  curbs  individual  lust,  was 
out  of  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith.  The  string 

310 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  FLOWER  311 

of  his  soul  hung  loose,  hardly  responsive,  across  the  warped 
and  meatless  belly  of  his  body. 


Yet  this  bloodless  semblance  of  the  old  Richard  Smith  still 
imagined  itself  a  Man,  even  imagined  itself  happy.  For 
that  first  night  in  Safrane's  chamber  had  converted  it  to 
whole-hearted  Beamishery. 

It  had  forgotten  its  duty,  forgotten  the  purpose  of  its  quest, 
forgotten  the  menace  of  Harinesia.  It  saw  the  Flower  Folk 
not  as  miserable  weaklings,  doped  with  illusion,  wantoners  in 
the  false  security  of  a  peace  their  arms  could  no  longer  main- 
tain, but  as  the  People  of  the  Ultimate  Destiny,  Man  and 
Woman  at  last  made  perfect.  It  no  longer  saw  itself  as  an 
individual,  but  as  something  finer  than  an  individual,  as 
"brother  Dicky",  joyous  member  of  a  joyous  community,  re- 
leased eternally  from  war  and  work  and  wages,  from  race- 
hatred and  colour-prejudice,  from  the  eating  of  meat  and  the 
bibbing  of  wine  .  .  .  and  from  every  other  natural 
emotion  which  sways  the  decent  heart  of  average  human 
beings. 

Dicky  now  knew  that  all  those  natural  emotions  were 
wrong.  Had  not  his  dear  "brother  Cyprian"  taught  him  a 
better  creed  than  the  creed  of  average  humanity — the  creed 
of  the  Flower?  Was  he  not,  therefore,  even  as  brother  Cyp- 
rian, now  perfect  in  body  as  in  soul,  utterly  lovely,  utterly 
happy  in  this  happiest,  loveliest  of  lands? 

And  yet,  somehow,  even  in  this  most  lovely  land,  on  this, 
most  glorious  of  mornings,  he,  brother  Dicky,  happiest  of 
men,  felt  vaguely  troubled,  almost  unhappy. 

Only  twice  since  coming  to  Floralia  had  he  known  that 
vague,  troublesome  unhappiness.  Once  it  had  come  upon  him 
in  the  Hall  of  the  Old  Things. 

He  tried  to  remember  that  far-away  unhappiness.  It 
must  have  come  upon  him  during  his  second  day  in  Floralia, 
because  the  Flower  had  not  yet  been  harvested.  Ah,  yes! 
Now  he  could  recollect  it  perfectly.  He  saw  himself  carry- 
ing his  armour  to  the  Hall.  Safrane  was  helping  him.  .  .  . 


312  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Recollection  blurred.  .  .  .  Some  trouble  about  his 
armour?  .  .  .  No — not  the  armour.  .  .  .  What  could  it 
have  been  then?  ...  Of  course!  .  .  .  His  bow, 
his  Great  Bow  Skelvi.  .  .  .  Somebody  had  done  some- 
thing to  his  bow — some  yellow  man.  .  .  .  And  then 
the  yellow  man  had  run  away.  He  had  wanted  to  take  his 
bow  and  shoot  the  yellow  man. 

But  brother  Cyprian  had  told  him  he  must  not  follow  nor 
shoot  the  yellow  man.  Brother  Cyprian  had  told  him  that 
yellow  men  were  just  as  much  his  brothers  as  the  Flower 
Folk.  Gaston,  too,  had  been  full  of  comfort:  yellow  men 
feared  the  Flower  Folk,  therefore  the  yellow  man  had  run 
away  to  his  own  country.  Also,  there  was  a  treaty  between 
yellow  men  and  the  Flower  Folk — a  very  sacred  treaty.  No 
harm  could  come  to  the  Flower  Folk  from  yellow  men.  .  .  . 

And  the  other  trouble?  That,  too,  must  have  happened 
on  the  second  day,  because  Safrane,  waist-deep  among  the 
basins,  was  harvesting  the  Flower.  Phu-nan  had  plunged  in 
to  help  her.  He  could  still  see  Phu-nan 's  brown  shoulders 
close  to  the  white  shoulders  of  Safrane.  But  he  could  no 
longer  see  why  the  sight  should  have  troubled  him.  Was  it, 
perhaps,  because  Phu-nan  was  such  a  funny  colour  ?  Or  was 
it  because  Phu-nan  refused  to  eat  of  the  Flower  which  he  had 
helped  harvest?  Or  was  it  because  of  Safrane? 

Safrane !  Thought  of  her  made  him  forget  the  old  troubles : 
remember  only  the  new.  And  at  that  memory  a  watcher — 
had  there  been  any  in  Floralia  save  Phu-nan  to  watch — might 
have  seen  the  dreaming  soul  of  the  thing  which  had  been  a 
Man  stir  to  life  behind  the  blank  blue  pupils  of  the  Long'un's 
eyes. 

Safrane!  Safrane  wished  to  rid  herself  of  him.  Why! 
They  had  been  so  happy  together.  She  had  taught  him  all 
the  dances  of  the  Flower  Folk,  all  the  jolly,  simple  songs  about 
the  crocuses  and  the  birds  and  the  butterflies.  They  had 
held  hands,  murmured  together,  while  Gaston  read  from  the 
Old  Books.  Ever  since  Moon-change  they  had  been  to- 
gether. His  dear,  dear  sister  Safrane.  Yet  now,  she  said  that 
she  must  leave  him,  find  some  other  brother.  Was  that  right  ? 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  FLOWER  313 

"Right!"  Almost,  the  jealous,  possessive  soul  of  the 
Long'un's  masculinity  awoke.  Almost — till  the  Flower-haze 
obscured  consciousness — he  became  the  monogamous  Anglo- 
Saxon  once  more.  .  .  . 

His  delicate  feet,  poised  as  for  flight,  carried  him  swiftly 
up  and  down  the  terrace.  Safrane  had  told  him  that,  as  it 
was  Moon-fade,  he  should  choose  him  one  of  the  other  sisters. 
And  he  didn't  want  one  of  the  other  sisters.  He  wanted 
Safrane — his  dear,  dear,  beautiful  sister  Safrane. 

But  now,  stronger  than  his  almost  human  desire  to  keep 
the  beauty  of  Safrane  for  himself,  was  the  almost  human 
jealousy  lest  another  should  possess  it.  .  .  . 

Looking  up  towards  Rock  o'  Dreams,  the  thing  which  had 
tried  to  be  Richard  Assheton  Smith  saw  the  thing  which  had 
been  Rene  de  Gys.  Beamish  leading,  it  came  slowly  down 
the  avenue. 

"Good  morrow,  brother  Cyprian,"  said  the  thing  which 
had  tried  to  be  Richard  Smith,  and  "Good  morrow,  brother 
Rene." 

The  pair  returned  the  salutation;  and  all  three  reclined  a 
while. 

De  Gys  wore  the  usual  white  toga  of  the  Floralians.  He 
was  still  bearded,  but  he  had  given  up  stroking  his  beard — 
because  whenever  he  did  so  the  hairs  came  away  in  his  hand. 
His  red-brown  eyes,  as  Dicky's,  had  lost  their  soul;  his  skin — 
hairless  as  Dicky's — had  lost  all  glow  of  humanity. 

Of  the  three,  Beamish  had  altered  least.  He  wore  his 
toga  carelessly  as  he  had  once  worn  his  silk  tunics;  his  eyes 
were  perhaps  a  little  dreamier,  a  little  more  the  eyes  of  the 
visionary;  his  uncombed  hair  had  thinned  a  trifle  over  his 
ears;  his  skin,  always  colourless,  might  now  have  been  the 
integument  of  some  albino  frog. 

"My  sister  Paquerette  and  sister  Pivoine  have  gone  away 
to  bathe  in  the  blue  pool,"  said  brother  Cyprian.  "Your 
sister  Safrane  also." 

"Yes — and  I  am  troubled  about  it." 

"But  why,  brother? " — Beamish  spoke  in  French.  "Have 
you  forgotten  that  it  is  Moon-fade.  All  the  sisters  go 


314  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

away  at  Moon-fade;  and  at  Moon-change  we  take  new 
sisters." 

"I  don't  want  one  of  the  other  brothers  to  take  Safrane," 
said  Dicky,  sullenly.  "I  want  her  for  myself  alone." 

"But  how  can  that  be,  brother?  Here,  in  the  Land  of  the 
Flower,  there  is  no  mine  or  thine.  As  we  share  the  seeds  we 
eat,  and  the  silks  we  wear,  and  the  sleeping-chambers,  so  we 
must  share  the  sisters." 

"Aye,"  echoed  de  Gys — but  de  Gys'  voice  was  no  longer 
the  trumpet-bellow  of  old  days.  "We  must  share  in  all 
things  alike."  (Long  ago,  when  he  first  knew  that  they  were 
dead,  de  Gys  had  decided  to  humour  Beamish,  who — for 
some  extraordinary  reason — still  imagined  himself  alive.) 
"Since  even  International  Socialists,  apparently,  manage  to 
scrape  their  way  into  Paradise,"  thought  de  Gys,  "it  is  ob- 
viously my  duty  to  be  kind  to  them." 

"Nor  do  I  want  to  take  one  of  the  other  sisters,"  went  on 
Dicky.  "  The  other  sisters  weary  me  with  their  chatter — and 
besides,  they  are  nearly  all  brunettes." 

Beamish  took  his  Flower-box  from  a  fold  in  his  tunic, 
handed  it  round.  The  three  ate. 

"I  feel  a  little  happier,"  decided  Dicky.  "Much,  much 
happier.  Shall  we  dance  awhile?" 

So  they  danced  together,  after  the  manner  of  Floralia,  lift- 
ing their  togas  joyously,  up  and  down  the  white  marble  of  the 
terrace  between  the  spurtling  fountains;  till  once  again  the 
semblance  of  a  soul  stirred  behind  Dicky's  eyes. 

"That  was  a  jolly  Morris  dance,"  said  Beamish,  staring 
down  into  the  Basins.  "Shall  we  eat  Flower  again?" 

"No,  brother."  The  thing  which  was  trying  to  become 
Richard  Smith  leaned  gracefully  against  the  marble.  "Let 
us  talk  awhile.  Do  you  remember  the  old  days,  before  we 
came  into  this  country — the  days  when  we  ate  meat?" 

"Those  were  bad  days,"  decided  brother  Cyprian. 

"Yet  sometimes  I  feel  I  should  like  to  taste  meat 
again." 

"One  cannot  hunt  in  this  place,"  said  de  Gys,  regretfully; 
and  a  watcher— had  there  been  one — might  have  seen  a 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  FLOWER  315 

little  of  that  regret  flicker  for  a  second  in  the  visionary  eyes  of 
Cyprian  Beamish — flicker,  and  disappear. 

"Brother  Cyprian,"  went  on  Dicky,  "I  am  no  longer 
happy.  I  am  troubled.  Do  you  remember — Harinesia?  I 
am  troubled  about  Harinesia." 

"Why,  brother?  We  shall  never  go  back  to  Harinesia; 
and  the  Harinesians  will  never  come  into  this  country." 

"You  are  sure,  brother  Cyprian?" 

"Quite  sure.  Have  you  forgotten?  Only  last  night 
Gaston  read  us  the  sacred  words  of  the  treaty.  And  besides, 
what  harm  could  the  Harinesians  do  to  us?" 

"They  might  kill  us,  brother  Cyprian." 

Beamish  laughed.  "There  is  no  death  here.  And  even 
if  there  were,  why  should  the  Harinesians  want  to  kill  us? 
We  have  done  them  no  harm." 

"I  don't  know  why  they  should  want  to  kill  us" — the 
tiniest  note  of  stubbornness  crept  into  the  weak  voice — "but 
supposing  they  did;  supposing  they  took  the  sisters  away. 
Supposing  they  came  this  Moon-change,  brother  Cyprian." 

Beamish  laid  a  pallid  hand  on  his  "brother's"  spray- 
splashed  ankle.  "If  they  were  to  come,  we  would  welcome 
them  with  our  songs  and  with  our  dances;  we  would  give 
them  of  the  Flower.  It  is  wrong  of  you  even  to  think  that 
the  Harinesians  might  cherish  evil  thoughts  against  us, 
brother  Richard." 

"Aye,"  echoed  de  Gys.  "We  must  not  even  think  evil  in 
this  place."  "Strange,"  thought  the  thing  which  had  been 
Rene  de  Gys,  "that  neither  of  these  two  should  guess  the 
truth." 

But  Safrane's  lover  shook  doubtful  head  till  the  gold  ring- 
lets tossed  like  silk  skeins  in  the  sunlight.  Supposing  the 
yellow  men  would  not  eat  of  the  Flower?  Supposing  they 
were  like  Phu-nan? 

"Phu-nan  will  learn  to  eat  of  the  Flower  when  his  old 
foods  are  exhausted,"  said  Beamish.  "Being  only  a  savage, 
it  is  natural  he  should  be  afraid  of  new  things." 

"And  is  it  natural  that  Safrane  should  leave  me,  brother 
Cyprian?" 


316  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"What  more  natural,  brother?  Could  you  make  a  soul 
your  property?  Would  you  grudge  Beauty  to  another 
brother?  To  me,  say — or  to  our  brother  Rene?" 

"N-o."  Words  came  slowly.  "And  yet,  I  do  not  wish 
to  give  up  Safrane." 

Beamish  arose,  placed  both  hands  on  his  *  "brother's" 
shoulders. 

"You  must  give  up  Safrane,"  ordered  Cyprian  Beamish. 
"I,  who  brought  you  to  this  country,  command  it.  Let  us 
have  no  more  disobedience,  brother  Richard." 

"You  command  it" — almost,  the  stubbornness  of  Anglo- 
Saxondom  was  back  in  the  Long'un's  voice.  "Why?" 

"Because  I  want  her  for  my  sister,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish 
— and  woke  a  Flower-crazed  soul! 

For  an  instant  the  blue  eyes  blazed.  Jealousy,  second 
instinct  of  the  tribal  male,  kindled  in  them;  jealousy  whis- 
pered "  Kill !  and  kill  quickly — or  you  lose  your  mate."  Then, 
suddenly,  the  eyes  went  blank  again;  and  without  a  word 
the  pale  ghost  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  Man  set  off  up  the  avenue. 

Beamish  turned  to  the  thing  which  had  been  Rene  de 
Gys,  saying:  "Our  brother  Richard  is  unhappy.  The  past 
still  harries  his  soul.  You,  too,  are  sometimes  unhappy. 
But  I,  your  brother  Cyprian,  am  always  happy — because  my 
dreams  have  come  true." 

Then,  very  joyously,  brother  Cyprian  began  to  discourse  of 
Floralia,  of  the  wonder  of  the  Flower,  and  the  wonderful 
treaty  with  Harinesia,  and  the  beauty  of  the  brothers  and 
the  sisters,  and  the  jolly  comradeship  of  their  perfect  com- 
munity; while  de  Gys  thought:  "Truly,  the  ways  of  the 
bon  Dieu  are  very  wonderful.  To  this  vegetarian  Com- 
munist soul  he  gives  a  vegetarian  Communist  Paradise. 
But  I,  because  I  was  very  wicked  on  earth,  am  punished  by 
the  loss  of  the  angel  Pivoine;  and  condemned  to  console 
myself  with  a  lesser  angel.  Let  us  hope  that  she  will  be  of 
the  aristocrats,  that  angel  who  chooses  me  at  Moon-change." 
And  he  began  to  visualize  la  sceur  GiroflSe  whom  Gaston  had 
assured  him  to  be  the  great-granddaughter  of  the  Due  de 
Vendome. 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  FLOWER  317 

The  pale  ghost  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  Man  came  slowly  into 
the  Hall  of  Old  Things.  The  ghost  was  still  incapable  of 
thought;  it  had  almost  forgotten  its  jealousy.  Yet  now, 
deep  behind  the  blank  blue  pupils  of  its  eyes,  the  soul  of  the 
ghost  was  astir,  shaking  itself  free  from  illusions. 

The  great  marble  Hall  was  empty.  Sunlight  dimmed 
the  seven  flames  of  roseate  gas  in  their  scolloped  niches, 
danced  through  the  high  columned  entrance-way  on  to  the 
smooth  walls,  on  to  Gaston's  throne,  on  to  the  Old  Things 
behind  the  throne.  Very  slowly  the  ghost  moved  towards 
the  Old  Things.  Phu-nan,  finding  time  heavy  on  his 
brown  hands,  had  been  burnishing  them;  they  winked  in 
the  sunlight. 

"I  want  one  of  these  Old  Things,"  thought  the  ghost.  It 
began  to  finger  them,  passing  its  smooth  white  hands  over  the 
barrels  of  the  muskets,  the  flintless  locks  of  the  pistols,  the 
bellies  of  the  powder-horns.  Then  it  tilted  one  of  the 
powder-horns. 

"Empty !"  muttered  the  ghost.     " Useless." 

It  began  to  finger  the  cutlasses,  testing  the  edge  of  them. 
And  again  it  muttered:  "Useless."  Noise  disturbed  the 
ghost.  Turning,  it  saw  Gaston. 

"Why  are  you  searching  among  the  Old  Things?"  asked 
Gaston;  and  the  ghost  answered  him: 

"I  am  searching  for  a  weapon." 

"But  why  do  you  require  a  weapon?"  asked  Gaston;  and 
the  ghost  answered : 

"Because,  without  a  weapon,  I  am  defenceless  against 
tyranny.  Because,  without  a  weapon,  I  cannot  kill  my 
meat.  Because,  until  I  have  eaten  meat,  I  cannot  stand  up 
against  the  tyrant  who  oppresses  me." 

"And  who  is  this  tyrant?"  asked  Gaston;  but  the  ghost 
only  mumbled  to  itself  in  a  tongue  the  poet  could  not  under- 
stand, and  continued  its  search  among  the  Old  Things.  At 
last  it  came  upon  a  heap  of  armour;  and,  lying  under  the 
armour,  upon  a  bow. 

"Skelvi!"  said  the  ghost.  "My  Great  Bow  Skelvi!" 
And  then  again:  "Useless!"  For  the  string  of  Skelvi  had 


318  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

been  severed  clean  across,  hung  in  two  pieces  between  nock 
and  nock. 

"They  cut  the  string,"  muttered  the  ghost.  "Those  yel- 
low men  cut  the  string.  If  only  I  had  another "  It 

stood  for  a  long  time,  its  blank  blue  eyes  blinking  into 
vacancy;  seemed  to  recollect  something;  stooped;  fumbled 
again  among  the  armour;  stood  upright,  a  helmet  in  its 
hand;  began  groping  in  the  crown  of  the  helmet.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  a  voice  almost  human  issued  from  its  pale 
lips: 

"Look,  Gaston,  look."  The  ghost  stretched  out  its  pale 
fingers;  showed  a  coil  of  sextuple-plaited  pittising  gut; 
moistened  the  gut — as  a  man  moistens  fishing-casts — between 
its  pale  lips. 

"Et  maintenant,  frere  Gaston,  you  shall  see  me  string 
Great  Bow  Skelvi,"  said  all  that  Beamishery  had  left  of  the 
Long  'un. 

He  reached  for  the  seven-foot  weapon;  lifted  it  by  the 
scarlet  grip;  gazed  long  at  the  white  back,  the  yellow  belly, 
the  hair  line  of  steel  between. 

"It's  heavy,"  he  thought — and  abruptly  English  words 
came  to  his  lips.  "A  damned  heavy  bow!"  said  all  that  was 
left  of  the  Long'un. 

Automatically,  he  passed  big  loop  of  the  gut  over  brazen 
top  nock;  drew  lower  slip-knot  fast;  rested  lower  nock  on  the 
marble  floor;  raised  right  hand  to  eye-level;  gripped  smooth 
wood;  tried  to  draw  it  down  to  him.  .  .  . 

But  the  Long'un  could  no  more  string  Skelvi.  Twice  the 
smooth  wood  yielded  to  his  fingers;  twice  his  left  hand 
sought  to  slide  big  loop  over  brazen  top  nock;  twice,  fighting 
like  a  live  thing,  the  bow  wrenched  his  hands  apart. 

A  third  time  he  essayed  the  feat;  a  third  time  the  great 
weapon  baffled  its  bearer.  "Help  me,  Gaston,"  he  panted. 
Together  they  fought  with  Skelvi,  tugging  at  wood  and 
gut  till  their  fingers  ached  and  their  breath  came  in  short, 
quick  gasps.  But  even  together  they  could  not  string 
Skelvi.  .  .  . 

Phu-nan,  returning  with  wood  to  cook  his  rice,  dropped  his 


THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  FLOWER  319 

bundle;  ran  to  help  the  two  pale  figures;  hauled  till  the 
sweat  pearled  his  loins.  .  .  . 

"At  last,"  gasped  the  Long  'un.  "At  last";  and  his  left 
hand  slid  the  loop  home. 

Neither  he  nor  Gaston  had  sweated;  their  bodies,  Flower- 
fed,  yielded  no  drop  of  the  saving  moisture.  They  stood, 
either  side  the  bow,  breathless,  exhausted;  and  Phu-nan, 
uncomprehending,  held  the  bow  between  them. 

Long'un  looked  at  the  Moi;  Long'un  looked  at  the  rigid 
arch  of  Bow  Skelvi;  Long'un  looked  at  Gaston's  working 
nostrils;  Long'un  looked  down  at  the  gut  marks  on  his  own 
pale  hands;  Long'un  looked  at  the  wood  for  Phu-nan's 
cooking.  And  looking,  hunger,  first  instinct  of  the  tribal 
male,  dawned  redly  in  his  eyes. 

He  bent  among  the  Old  Things;  found  what  he  sought; 
drew  one  black  shaft  from  its  quiver,  and  stood  upright. 
Then,  more  automaton  than  Man,  he  took  Skelvi  from  the 
wondering  Moi;  gave  a  last  look  at  the  twig-bundle  spillik- 
ened  on  the  marble;  and  passed  out  from  the  Hall. 


"He  grows  restless,"  mused  Gaston.  "Restless  as  our 
lost  brother  Lucien.  Ought  I  to  follow  him?" 

But  Gaston — for  all  that  his  nature  offered  more  resistance 
to  the  Flower  than  any  of  his  "children" — was  as  incapable 
of  individual  judgment  as  Beamish  had  been  at  Singa- 
pore. 

"I  will  consult  the  Old  Books,"  muttered  Gaston;  and 
twirling  his  moustache — only  moustache  among  the  Flower 
Folk — he  made  search  among  the  stained  worn  volumes 
which  littered  the  floor  about  his  alabaster  throne;  till,  by 
some  miraculous  chance,  his  delicate  fingers  lit  upon  that 
first  book  of  Beamishery— "The  Social  Contract"  of  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau. 

"  Book  Three.  Chapter  the  first,"  read  Gaston.  "  Every 
action  of  a  free  individual  is  the  result  of  two  causes.  The 
first  Cause  is  of  the  soul:  being  the  Will  which  drives  the 
individual  to  action.  The  second  Cause  is  of  the  body :  being 


320  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

the  Strength  which  enables  the  individual  to  give  effect  to 
his  Will." 

"I  shall  not  follow  him,"  said  Gaston  the  poet — for  some- 
how even  his  fuddled  brain  now  knew  that,  out  of  the  mouth 
of  its  own  father,  Beamishery  stood  utterly  condemned. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH 

Old  Things 

A  CURSE    upon    this    marching!"    grumbled    Akiou. 
"Had  our  new  Emperor  but  given  the  word  without 
delay,  it  would  have  been  full  moon  to-night.     Now, 
we  must  make  Quivering  Stone  ere  sunset;  and  there  await 
the  dawn.     Is  thy  company  fed,  Keo?" 
"Aye;  and  Nak  ready  for  the  march." 
"Then  let  the  scout  proceed." 

***** 

As  his  pale,  meatless  body  passed  out  of  Rock  o'  Dreams 
into  sunshine  the  awakening  soul  of  Richard  Smith  knew 
that  third  instinct  of  the  tribal  male,  which  is  called  "Fear." 
He  could  just  see  Beamish — deep  in  converse  with  de  Gys  on 
the  terrace  where  he  had  left  them.  Fear  and  Jealousy 
urged  him  to  kill  Beamish.  But  he  was  afraid  to  kill  Beam- 
ish— because  he  had  brought  only  one  arrow — and  both 
Hunger  and  Fear  forbade  him  use  that  arrow  on  anything 
he  could  not  eat.  The  individual  Will — working  through 
Fear  and  Hunger — said  to  the  individual  Body:  "Go  and 
kill  meat." 

He  stood  a  moment — eyes  gazing  down  the  avenue  at 
Beamish — crocuses  of  saffron  mead  pollening  his  pale  toes 
golden,  then,  doped  soul  panicking  both  Will  and  Body, 
dived  between  two  plum-coloured  trees;  sped  downhill. 

He  must  escape,  escape  at  all  costs  from  Floralia.  But 
there  was  no  escape  from  Floralia.  The  river,  the  burning 
river,  ringed  Floralia;  ringed  it  like — like  Safrane's  girdle — 
no,  not  like  a  woman's  girdle — like  a  belt,  a  man's  sword-belt. 

"Why  didn't  I  buckle  on  my  sword?"  muttered  Dicky. 
"With  a  sword  I  could  have  killed  Beamish."  Now,  for  all 

321 


322  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

his  weakness,  he  ran  like  a  white  fawn,  circling  among  the 
plum-coloured  trees,  circling  down  the  hill.  Hunger  at  his 
heels,  he  darted  through  the  orange-coloured  forest;  Fear  on 
his  back,  he  darted  along  the  water-courses. 

Flower-people  were  bathing  in  the  water-courses.  They 
called  to  him:  "Brother,  brother,  come  dance  with  us 
awhile."  He  saw  sister  Giroflee's  pale  face  framed  in  the 
dark  nimbus  of  her  hair. 

"Smeef,"  laughed  sister  Giroflee.  "Smeef.  You  will 
hurt  yourself  if  you  run  so  fast." 

He  was  afraid  of  hurting  himself;  but  he  ran  on,  panting,, 
sweatless.  He  saw  the  shimmer  of  the  harebells;  he  made 
the  harebells.  He  fled  across  the  shimmer  of  the  harebells; 
fell,  breathless,  still  grasping  his  bow.  Pollen  of  the  hare- 
bells streaked  the  alabaster  of  his  body. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  saw  the  high,  white  shimmer  of  the 
woodlands.  He  staggered  through  the  woodlands.  Blos- 
soms of  the  woodlands  tangled  in  his  bow-string.  White 
pollen  of  the  woodlands  streaked  the  golden  ringlets  of  his 
hair.  He  staggered  beyond  the  woodlands  into  a  remem- 
bered glade. 

And  suddenly  as  Fear  had  come  came  Knowledge:  he 
knew  what  had  driven  him  to  the  glade.  He  was  looking 
for  deer,  for  the  speckled  deer  he  had  once  seen  drinking  at 
the  stream. 


They  stood  at  gaze,  the  man  and  the  unhunted  deer.  No 
knowledge  glimmered  in  the  eyes  of  the  unhunted  deer;  but 
now  both  fear  and  knowledge  glimmered  in  the  hunger- 
hunted  eyes  of  the  man.  The  tribal  male  knew  himself 
starving;  knew  that  he  must  kill;  knew  that,  if  his  arrow 
missed  the  deer,  he  would  die.  .  .  . 

The  deer,  still  unafraid,  watched  the  man  raise  his  bow,  fit 
arrow  to  the  string.  .  .  . 

"I  must  kill  it,"  muttered  the  man.  "I  must  kill  it  with 
this  one  arrow." 

The  deer  had  turned  red  to  the  man's  eyes:  the  white 


OLD  THINGS  323 

speckles  on  the  deer's  hide  were  crimson,  the  white  line  of  its 
underthroat  scarlet — like — like  blood.  The  man's  left  hand 
shook  in  the  slotted  grip  of  the  bow;  his  fingers  shook  like 
leaves  at  the  feathers  of  the  shaft.  He  tried  to  flex  the  bow. 
The  bow  resisted  him.  He  knew  the  fourth  instinct — the 
instinct  of  Prayer.  "God,"  muttered  the  man.  "God — 
help  me."  The  bow  yielded  a  little.  He  tugged  at  the 
feathers.  Barb  crept  back — back  and  back.  He  looked  in- 
to the  deer's  eyes,  at  the  scarlet  line  of  its  underthroat.  He 
felt  his  heart  bursting  with  the  strain  of  the  bow  as  his  arms 
opened.  Barb  touched  bow-back.  .  .  . 
Long'un  shot;  fell;  fainted. 


Slowly  consciousness  dawned  on  the  Long'un's  mind. 
He  was  lying  on  his  side,  head  upturned.  Something — 
something  very  warm  and  desirable — lay  over  his  face. 
Something — something  very  hard  and  painful — was  pricking 
into  the  small  of  his  back.  He  didn't  care.  They  could 
drive  arrows  through  his  back.  Instinct  wanted  the  thing 
on  his  face — the  warm,  desirable  trickling  thing.  God,  how 
good  it  tasted ! 

For  fully  ten  minutes  teeth  tore  at  the  wound  in  the 
deer's  throat.  With  every  mouthful  of  flesh,  with  every 
trickle  of  blood  down  his  gullet,  Long'un  could  feel  the 
strength  coming  back  into  his  body.  .  .  . 

Desisting  a  moment,  he  felt  pain;  knew  that  he  must  be 
lying  on  a  nock  of  his  bow;  pushed  the  dead  deer  off  his  face; 
rolled  from  under  it.  Then  he  crouched  once  more  over  his 
kill,  tearing  at  the  warm  flesh  with  blood-soaked  fingers, 
stuffing  the  warm  flesh  into  his  dripping  mouth. 

Followed  thirst.  He  staggered  to  the  stream,  parted  the 
lily-like  blossoms,  lay  face-to-water — drinking,  drinking, 
drinking.  Would  the  water  never  assuage  his  thirst?  Curse 
the  water — it  was  warm,  and  it  tasted  of  flowers.  He 
wanted  cold  water. 

Followed  Shame — first  instinct  of  civilized  man.  He  had 
not  eaten  like  a  man — but  like  a  beast. 


324  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Long'un  stood  upright.  His  tonga  dripped  blood  and 
water  over  his  pollened  legs;  his  arms  were  dyed  scarlet 
from  elbow  to  finger-tips;  among  the  gold  ringlets  of  his  hair, 
among  the  pollen  of  the  white  blossoms,  clotted  fragments  of 
red  flesh  and  gouts  of  browning  blood.  But  the  Long'un's 
eyes  were  no  longer  the  eyes  of  the  Flower  Folk;  they  were 
the  fierce  eyes  of  the  tribal  male. 

The  tribal  male  cleansed  himself  as  best  he  might  in  the 
stream;  strode  back  to  the  gnawed  deer;  saw  that  his  arrow, 
driven  clean  through  the  neck,  had  dropped  on  the  turf 
beyond;  retrieved  his  arrow,  rolled  the  carcase  off  his  bow; 
took  up  his  bow,  feeling  it  uninjured,  light  in  his  hand.  The 
tribal  male  looked  at  the  meat  he  had  killed.  .  .  .  He 
must  carry  the  meat  to  his  woman.  While  she  cooked  the 
meat  for  him,  he  would  go  kill  their  enemy — the  man  who 
wanted  to  take  his  mate,  his  most  cherished  possession — the 
man  Beamish! 

But  now  abruptly  words  shaped  themselves  in  the 
Long'un's  mind :  "Thou  shalt  do  no  murder"  .  .  .  And 
at  those  words — as  though  God's  finger  had  touched  them — 
the  eyes  of  the  tribal  male  changed;  became  once  more  the 
eyes  of  Richard  Smith,  Anglo-Saxon. 

The  Long'un  was  praying.  He  prayed,  kneeling  beside 
Skelvi,  to  the  God  of  the  English,  the  old,  stern  God  of  his 
labouring  forefathers,  the  God  of  Heaven  and  Hell.  .  .  . 
For  now  he  knew  that  he  had  been  in  Hell.  .  .  .  And 
praying,  he  thought:  "I  am  still  in  Hell." 

He  no  longer  wanted  Safrane.  He  no  longer  wanted  to 
kill  Beamish.  He  wanted  full  knowledge — only  escape  from 
Hell.  He  wanted  his  manhood — his  full-knowledged,  civi- 
lized manhood.  He  wanted  God  to  give  him  back  his  full- 
knowledged  manhood — so  that  he  might  escape  from  Hell. 

"Our  Father,"  prayed  the  Long'un,  "cure  me  of 
illusions!"  .  . 

And  at  those  words,  swiftly  as  they  had  come  upon  him  by 
the  blue  pool,  illusions  vanished.  Cured  of  Beamishery, 
a  thousand  years  of  English-speaking  humanity  behind  him, 
the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith  rose  to  his  feet. 


OLD  THINGS  325 

Now  he  saw  Floralia  in  its  true  light,  in  all  the  horror  of  its 
weak,  unfruitful  "Beauty".  For  a  moment  rage  and  shame 
that  he  should  have  been  of  the  Flower  People  held  him 
speechless;  then,  looking  at  the  white  blossoms,  words  broke 
from  him. 

"Curse  Floralia!  Curse  its  white  blossoms — they  stink, 
they  are  sterile,  they  bear  no  fruit.  Curse  Floralia !  Curse 
the  purple  seeds  of  its  Flower — the  seeds  that  doped  us!" 

Dope!  He  had  been  doped.  Beamish  and  de  Gys  were 
still  doped.  The  Flower  Folk  were  all  doped,  sterile.  They 
bore  no  fruit.  They.  .  .  .  For  how  long  had  he  been  doped? 

In  a  flash,  as  though  a  mad  movie  spun  across  the  screen  of 
his  brain,  Long'un's  memory  released  its  recollected  pictures. 
In  a  flash,  he  was  tearing  down  the  glade.  But  the  pictures 
outstripped  his  tearing  feet — he  saw  Kun-mer,  Kun-mer's 
trusty  ones,  Harinesia,  Them  of  the  Bow.  For  how  long 
had  he  been  doped  ? 

Glade  vanished  under  the  rush  of  his  feet.  He  trod  path- 
way. Pathway  vanished.  He  was  on  turf.  He  tore  across 
the  daffadillied  turf. 

Hysteria  passed  from  him.  Now,  between  walls  of  high 
white  marble,  he  trod  stealthily.  Now,  at  the  parados  of 
the  ruined  earthworks,  he  dropped  face-to-ground;  laid  bow 
and  arrow  beside  him;  raised  body  on  his  elbows;  lifted  his 
eyes  above  the  parados. 

Parapet  blocked  his  view.  He  snaked  up  the  parados, 
down  into  the  shallow  trench;  peered  through  a  gap  in  the 
parapet. 

Immediately  below  him,  stinking  with  the  stink  of  rotten 
orchids,  lay  the  ditch;  beyond  the  ditch,  walled  either  side  by 
sheer  marble,  the  glacis;  below  the  glacis,  Warm  Water  Ford; 
beyond  the  Ford,  smoothen  turf,  glimmering,  bare  as  the 
bottom  of  a  plate,  bounded  by  the  sea  of  fern.  He  looked 
beyond  the  fern  over  the  fountain-belt  to  Quivering  Stone; 
was  aware  that  something,  man  or  animal,  moved  in  the  sea 
of  fern.  Movement  rippled  to  the  edge  of  the  fern.  The 
ferns  parted.  A  helmeted  face  peered  cautiously  at  Warm 
Water  Ford;  withdrew. 


326  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

The  Long'un  waited;  saw  Akiou's  scout  make  Quivering 
Stone;  saw  him  signal;  disappear. 

All  thought  of  what  lay  behind  him  vanished  from  the 
Long'un's  mind.  He  became  the  disciplined  regimental 
soldier — the  Colonel  Smith  of  old  days — interested  solely  in 
his  own  tiny  share  of  the  great  game,  War. 

Soon  faint  spirals  of  smoke  showed  above  the  Black  Egg  of 
the  Stone.  "Cooking,"  meditated  Colonel  Smith,  "there's 
no  moon  to-night — they'll  come  down  at  dawn.  I  ought  to 
be  getting  back."  But,  fearing  unseen  scouts,  Colonel  Smith 
did  not  go  back.  He  waited  on,  watching  for  movement  in 
the  fern-sea,  watching  the  smoke-spirals;  waited  till  the 
shadows  of  the  twin  rocks  threw  warm  violets  across  glim- 
mering turf. 

And  waiting,  visions — ousting  discipline — thronged  his 
mind.  It  was  as  though  the  ghosts  of  those  who  had  built 
the  earthworks  lay  with  him  in  the  trench.  He  saw  them — 
hairy  faces  under  soiled  puggrees;  hairy  eyes  squinting  along 
hot  musket-barrels.  Hairy  hands,  the  hands  that  had  fought 
with  Minh  Mhang  and  with  Thien  Thri,  desisting  a  second 
from  their  work,  gave  him  the  grip  of  comradeship.  Behind 
him,  safe  between  the  rock-walls,  crouched  the  ghosts  of 
many  women — strong,  splendid  women,  whose  fingers,  deli- 
cate in  peace,  could  yet  thrust  home  the  bombard  for  right- 
eous warfare;  whose  lips,  soft  in  love,  could  yet  chew  the 
bullet-wad  for  their  battling  mates.  Next  to  him,  pistols 
stuffed  into  the  band  of  his  soutane,,  lay  the  ghost  of  a  fighting 
priest.  "These  made  Floralia,"  said  the  ghost.  "What  is 
Floralia  now?" 

He  answered  the  ghost:  "A  horror.  A  sterile  horror. 
Beauty  without  strength,  beauty  without  labour,  beauty 
without  struggle,  beauty  without  soul." 

"Not  their  fault,"  muttered  the  priest.  "They  are  mazed 
with  the  Flower.  They  are  children — our  children.  Will 
not  you — a  soldier — fight  for  these  little  ones?" 

Visions  vanished;  he  was  alone  in  the  trench.  Now, 
clairvoyant,  he  seemed  to  see,  beyond  the  Stone,  Them  of 
the  Bow,  thousands,  armed  to  the  teeth.  They  of  the  Bow 


OLD  THINGS  327 

wanted  the  women  of  the  Flower  Folk — the  sterile  women 
who  had  forgotten  their  forefathers'  gods. 

"Flower  Folk — not  worth  fighting  for,"  muttered  the 
Long'un.  A  Greek  word  came  to  his  lips,  "Idiotis — idiots — 
people  who  accomplish  nothing."  Yet  they  were  white. 
The  men  beyond  the  Stone  were  yellow.  Once  again,  as  in 
the  house  of  Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese,  he  saw'  the  end  of  England 
and  America  if  the  Beamishes  had  their  way  with  them; 
saw  Anglo-Saxondom  played  out,  rotten,  delivered  up  to  the 
weary  Willies  and  tired  Tims  of  Internationalism;  saw  the 
white  man's  benevolent  force  go  down  before  the  malevolent 
forces  of  the  material  East. 

"We  fought  that  fight  before,"  he  muttered.  "White 
ideals  against  yellow  materialism.  Huns  or  Harinesians, 
Kaiser  or  Karl  L  Marx  or  Kun-mer — it's  the  same  old 
enemy." 

Now,  Colonel  the  Honourable  Richard  Assheton  Smith 
knew  that  he  must  defend  Warm  Water  Ford  to  the  death. 

Twilight  began.  A  little  breeze  blew  down  from  the  Stone. 
Sound  came  with  the  breeze,  sound  of  men  chanting.  "  The 
sunset  is  red  with  the  blood  of  the  gods." 

The  Long'un  crawled  back  from  his  trench;  took  bow  and 
arrow;  sped  for  Rock  o'  Dreams. 

He  thought  as  he  ran:  "De  Gys  must  have  meat.  We 
must  rouse  the  Flower  Folk:  we  must  arm  them:  we  must 
re-dig  the  ditch :  we  must  beat  off  the  Harinesians :  we  must 
cure  the  Flower  Folk  of  illusions :  we  and  they  must  fight  our 
way  through  Harinesia — home." 

He  came  to  the  carcase  of  the  deer;  marvelled  that  no 
flies  should  have  gathered  on  it;  remembered  that  there  was 
neither  fly  nor  bee  nor  any  fertilizing  creature  in  all  Floralia ; 
stooped  over  the  deer;  slung  it  round  his  shoulders;  ran  on, 
stern,  sweating,  sorrowful  for  the  sweatless  Flower  Folk 
whose  songs  reached  him  as  he  ran. 

***** 

Already  the  entrance-way  to  Rock  o'  Dreams  glowed 
roseate:  already,  shadows  against  glow,  the  Flower  Folk 


328  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

were  dancing.    They  danced  the  Moon-fade  Dance,  couple 
by  couple,  singing: 

"Brother,  Brother,  Night  hath  escaladed 

The  Mountains  of  the  Moon;  and  lo!  the  Moon  hath  faded. 

Sister,  Sister,  why  the  song  of  sorrow  ? 

Moon-Change,  Moon-change,  Moon-change  comes  to-morrow" 

Stern,  sorrowful,  leaning  upon  Skelvi,  Skelvi's  arrow  in  his 
hand,  Skelvi's  trophy  at  his  feet,  the  Long'un  watched  them. 

Paquerette,  arms  outstretched,  danced  up  to  him. 
"Brother,  brother,  lo!  the  moon  hath  faded,"  sang  Paquer- 
ette. She  pirouetted  away,  beckoning  with  flexed  wrists 
that  he  should  follow.  He  let  her  go;  saw  her  link  arms  with 
one  of  the  Flower  Men;  saw  them  kiss,  foolishly,  as  they 
twirled  into  shadows. 

De  Gys  came,  wooing  Giroflee.  "Moon-change,  Moon- 
change,  Moon-change  comes  to-morrow,"  sang  Rene  de 
Gys;  and  the  Long'un  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  white  de 
Gys  had  grown,  how  the  voice  had  dwindled  in  his  throat. 
De  Gys  passed,  lifting  his  toga — utterly  grotesque — the 
ghost  of  a  dancing  bear.  Followed  "Brother  Cyprian" — with 
Safrane! 

"So  much  for  Communists!"  muttered  the  Long'un;  and 
for  a  moment  he  forgot.  Jealousy  had  her  way  with  him. 
His  fingers  itched  to  drive  an  arrow  through  Beamish's  heart. 
His  hands  itched  to  beat  Safrane  with  his  unstrung  bow. 
Then,  remembering,  he  knew  himself  desperately  sorry  for 
Safrane,  for  Beamish,  for  the  thing  he  must  do  to  Beamish. 
It  would  be  worse  than  death  for  the  doctor  to  learn  that  all 
his  dreams  were  dope.  .  .  .  Would  it,  perhaps,  be  kinder 
to  let  Beamish  die  believing  in  the  truth  of  his  dreams ! 

"Jolly!"  murmured  Cyprian  Beamish.  "Jolly  to  dance 
among  the  crocuses  with  you,  dear  sister  Safrane." 

"Jolly!"  muttered  the  Long'un.  "Damned  jolly — with 
the  Harinesians  bivouacked  at  Quivering  Stone!" 

Round  and  round  Saffron  Mead,  up  and  down  among  the 
crocuses,  rosy  shadows  against  rosy  glow,  danced  the  People 


OLD  THINGS  329 

of  the  Flower.  Stern,  sorrowful,  the  Long'un  watched  until 
de  Gys  passed  again. 

"Mon  vieux !"  His  hand  grabbed  for  the  Frenchman's 
arm,  caught  and  held  it.  Giroflee  danced  away.  De  Gys 
tried  to  free  himself — but  the  strength  had  gone  out  of  him. 

The  two  friends  faced  each  other  in  the  half  light. 

"Laisse-moi,  frere  Richard,  je  danse,"  murmured  the  thing 
which  had  been  Rene  de  Gys. 

"You  dance  to  your  death — Commandant  1" 

Red-brown  eyes,  soulless,  sought  eyes  of  blue.  "How  can 
that  be,  Colonel,  since  we  are  already  dead?" 

"You  believe  that  you  are  dead?" 

"I  know  that  I  am  dead.  The  woman  Su-rah  poisoned 
me.  This  is  Paradise.  At  least,  I  hope  it  is  Paradise. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  it  Purgatory." 

"Listen,  de  Gys,"  the  Long'un's  eyes  held  their  man. 
"You're  not  dead,  you're  drugged.  Drugged!  Do  you 
understand?  But  you  soon  will  be  dead — unless  you  defend 
yourself.  The  Harinesians — Kun-mer's  men — can  you  re- 
member Kun-mer,  de  Gys?" 

"But  of  course.  I  lied  to  Kun-mer.  For  that  I  must  do 
penance.  The  bon  Dieu  has  taken  away  his  angel  Pivoine; 
and  I  must  do  penance  with  Giroflee." 

Suddenly  the  Long'un  saw  his  friend's  nostrils  twitch; 
saw  his  eyes  seek  the  ground. 

"What  is  that,  Colonel?"  mumbled  the  thing  which  had 
been  de  Gys. 

"Meat,  Commandant.    Meat,  mon  ami." 

"Meat?    How  came  it  here?" 

"I  shot  it.  Do  you  understand?  I  shot  it  with  Skelvi. 
I  ate  some  of  it.  I  want  you  to  eat  some  of  it,  de  Gys." 

"How  can  the  dead  eat?" 

"We're  not  dead,  I  tell  you.  We're  alive."  It  was  like 
talking  to  a  child.  "You're  alive,  de  Gys.  I'm  alive." 

"Even  if  I  am  alive,  I  must  not  eat  meat.  Brother 
Cyprian  says " 

"Damn  brother  Cyprian."  The  Long'un,  still  holding 
the  flabby  arm,  stooped  for  his  deer;  heaved  it  nostril-high. 


330  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

It  might  have  been  the  ghost  of  a  bear  which  reared  up 
over  the  carcase,  wrenched  it  from  his  hand.  .  .  . 

Long'un  turned  away,  grateful  that  none  had  watched 
him  eat  raw  flesh. 


Commandant  Rene  de  Gys  of  the  French  Annamite 
Army,  blood-smeared  from  head  to  foot,  rose  up  from  his 
meal.  The  Flower  Folk,  still  singing,  rested  from  their 
dance. 

"What  happened  to  us,  mon  ami?"  stammered  Rene  de 
Gys.  "Where  are  we?"  Red-brown  eyes  stared  at  the 
shadowy  figures  on  the  turf.  "Who  are  these  people?  I 
remember  nothing  after  you  found  the  crucifix  among  the 
rocks." 

The  Long'un  began  his  story.  "Ten  minutes  ago,  mon 
ami,  you  thought  that  you  were  dead.  But  you  were  only 
doped — like  these  people  you  see  around  us." 

Abruptly,  loud  as  elephant's  bellow,  rang  out  the  old 
laugh.  "Ho!  Ho!  Ho!"  laughed  Rene  de  Gys.  "I 
thought  that  I  was  dead.  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  But  that  is 
funny,  that  is  bigremenl  funny,  mon  ami." 

"Funny!"  barked  the  Long'un.  "You  think  it  funny! 
We've  been  here  a  month,  de  Gys — and  the  Harinesians,  at 
this  very  moment,  bivouac  by  Quivering  Stone." 

"Therefore,  we  must  defend  ourselves?" 

"Exactly." 

They  tried  to  find  each  other's  eyes  in  the'darkness,  failed. 

"These  people" — de  Gys'  wet  hand  gripped  the  Long'un's 
arm — "are  these  my  people?  Are  these  the  people  we  came 
so  far  to  seek?" 

"Brother,  Brother,  Night  hath  escaladed 

The  Mountains  of  the  Moon;  and  lo!  the  Moon  hath  faded." 

sang  the  Flower  Folk. 

"Are  these  my  people,  Behaine's  people?"  repeated  de 
Gys. 


OLD  THINGS  331 

"Their  descendants,  mon  ami." 

"And  the  Flower?  The  Flower  the  doctor  wanted  for  all 
humanity?" 

"That,  too,  we  have  found!" 

"Sister,  Sister,  why  the  song  of  sorrow? 
Moon-change,   Moon-change,   Moon-change   comes   to-mor- 
row,'9 

sang  the  Flower  Folk. 

"These  are  not  my  people,"  said  de  Gys,  stubbornly. 
"These  are  not  the  old  adventurers.  These  are  no  people  of 
France." 

It  dawned  upon  the  Long'un  that  de  Gys  was  close  to 
tears,  that  de  Gys'  quick  Gallic  brain  had  realized  everything. 
Suddenly  the  Frenchman  lifted  up  his  great  head,  bellowed 
across  the  roseate  darkness: 

" Concitoyens,  concitoyennes  de  la  France!  We  are  come. 
We — your  liberators.  Aux  armes,  citoyens!  The  enemy  is 
upon  us." 

Answered  out  of  the  darkness,  one  voice,  an  English  voice — 
Beamish. 

"Moon-change,   Moon-change,  Moon-change  comes  to-mor- 
row,19 

sang  Cyprian  Beamish. 

"Not  your  people  only,"  said  the  Long'un.     .     .     . 


They  stood  there  for  a  long  time,  the  carcase  of  the  deer 
between  them;  and  twice  again  de  Gys  bellowed  across  the 
roseate  darkness:  "Aux  armes!  The  enemy  is  upon  us." 
But  now,  not  even  Beamish  answered :  the  Flower  Folk 
drowsed  together,  couple  by  couple,  fingers  locking  fingers, 
impotent,  sterile,  doped. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  asked  de  Gys. 

"Our  duty,"  said  the  Long'un. 

"Pah — for  these  hermaphrodites." 


332  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"We  may  yet  save  them." 

"A  quoi  bonf  A  la  guillotine?"  rumbled  ex-aristocrat 
Rene  de  Gys.  But  in  his  soldier's  heart  he  knew  that  his 
friend  spoke  simple  truth. 

"Let  us  find  Phu-nan,"  said  the  Long'un.  "Let  us  arm 
ourselves.  I  am  hungry  again,  I  must  make  another  meal. 
Help  me  carry  this  beast,  mon  vieux" 

They  picked  up  their  grisly  burden.  "And  the  doctor?" 
asked  de  Gys,  as  they  toted  it  between  the  drowsy  dancers. 

"You  forget  the  doctor's  principles,"  said  Long'un,  a 
little  bitterly. 

So,  each  wondering  how  long  three  men  might  hope  to  hold 
Warm  Water  Ford  against  Them  of  the  Bow,  these  two  came 
through  the  roseate  columns  of  the  entrance-way  into  the 
Hall  of  Old  Things;  found  Phu-nan  dozing,  brown  among 
white  cushions,  at  the  foot  of  Gaston's  throne. 

"Awake,  savage!" — de  Gys  drove  bare  feet  at  brown  side. 
"Awake.  Make  fire.  Cook  meat." 

The  Moi,  seeing  blood  on  his  master's  toga,  shrieked, 
"The  master  is  wounded!" 

The  Frenchman  laughed.  "I  am  well,  savage.  Obey  me 
swiftly.  Is  there  wood?" 

"Aye,  master." 

While  Phu-nan  made  his  fire  in  the  entrance-way,  cut 
strips  from  the  chewed  deer,  de  Gys  and  the  Long'un  turned 
to  the  Old  Things. 

"Useless,"  said  the  Frenchman,  examining  them.  "Use- 
less !  Not  a  flint  in  the  pistols,  not  a  grain  of  powder  in  the 
horns.  Et  les  tue-Boches" — he  snapped  a  bayonet  between 
two  fingers.  "Pah — these  at  least  they  might  have  kept 
greased." 

"It's  the  Flower,"  soothed  the  Long'un.  "Only  the 
Flower." 

They  found  their  own  equipment;  began  to  make  count  of 
it — three  suits  of  Harinesian  mail,  Skelvi,  Phu-nan's  long- 
bow, the  two  hunting-bows,  two  hundred  and  fifty  arrows, 
Sword  Straight,  two  other  swords,  two  spears,  six  battle- 
axes.  And  counting,  each  knew  the  task  hopeless. 


OLD  THINGS  333 

"We  shall  kill  fifty  of  them,"  gasconaded  de  Gys. 

"And  then!"  said  the  Long'un. 

They  looked  at  each  other  across  the  heap  of  armour. 

"We  need  not  fight.  We  could  make  terms.  We  could  go 
back  to  Harinesia,"  said  de  Gys.  "We  could  take  Beamish 
with  us." 

66 Mais  oui"  answered  the  Long'un,  "we  could  go  back  to 
Harinesia — if  you  were  not  a  fool  named  de  Gys,  and  I  not  a 
greater  fool  named  Smith." 

"I  have  cooked  the  meat,"  called  Phu-nan.  "May  I  also 
eat  the  meat" 


"Good-night,  dear  brother  Cyprian,"  cooed  the  girl 
Safrane.  "Till  Moon-change!"  She  flitted  away,  round 
Rock  o'  Dreams  to  her  sleeping-chamber.  Beamish  watched 
her  go,  lay  back  on  the  turf. 

' '  There  is  no  moon, ' '  mused  Beamish .  * '  There  are  no  stars . 
Safrane  is  like  a  star:  too  fine  a  star  for  that  dull  clod  I 
brought  with  me  into  this  land  of  my  dreams.  Why  did  I 
bring  him?  No  matter!  To-morrow  I  take  her  from  him. 
To-morrow  my  star  will  be  mine.  How  wonderful  is  life! 
Here,  in  this  loveliest  of  lands,  life  has  been  made  perfect  for 
me.  How  wonderful  am  I,  to  be  worthy  of  this  land.  It  is 
because  of  my  ideals.  Ideals  feed  me.  I  am  never  hungry. 
I  never  thirst.  I  am  a  flower.  I  live  as  the  flowers  live. 
But  one  day  in  each  year  I  labour.  Therefore,  I  am  not  a 
flower.  No — I  am  not  a  flower.  I  am  a  labourer.  I  labour 
with  my  hands.  For  the  community!  For  this  joyous, 
joyous  community." 

He  reached  down  pallid  fingers  for  his  Flower-box;  took 
three  seeds. 

"This  community  is  mine,"  went  on  thought.  "My  ideals 
made  it.  Therefore,  it  is  mine.  All  this  joyous  community 
is  of  my  making.  I  have  fashioned  this  community  in  God's 
image  out  of  the  old  earth — the  earth  where  wage-slaves 
struggled  and  sweated,  taking  the  meat  from  each  other's 
mouths." 


334  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Taking  the  meat  from  each  other's  mouths!"  This 
time,  Beamish  spoke  aloud.  Was  it  illusion?  Or  did  his 
nostrils  perceive,  in  this  land  of  dreams,  a  remembered  smell 
of  that  old  earth — the  perfume  of  cookery? 


"fa  sent  bigrement  6on." 

"It  tastes  even  better."  The  Long'un,  squatting  with  his 
back  to  one  column  of  the  entrance-way,  took  another  strip  of 
deer-flesh  from  the  hot  ashes.  "Tell  Phu-nan  we  must  take 
rice  to  the  ford.  And,  de  Gys,  what  about  a  smoke?" 

The  Frenchman  spoke  to  his  servant.  Phu-nan,  teeth 
still  in  his  meat,  trotted  across  the  hall;  brought  back  a 
bundle  of  cheroots.  The  Long'un  grabbed  one;  finished  his 
slice  of  meat;  lit  up;  inhaled  acrid  smoke  hungrily.  "7  don't 
know  what  to  do  about  the  doc,"  meditated  Long'un.  A 
footfall  on  the  turf  disturbed  thought.  .  .  . 

Beamish,  crocus-pollened,  toga  wet  with  dew,  came  slowly, 
but  with  the  certainty  of  a  sleep-walker,  towards  the  dying 
fire.  He  said  no  word.  His  face,  his  graying  hair,  his  lean 
neck  showed  rosy  hi  the  natural  gas-light  of  Rock  o'  Dreams. 
His  mouth,  flower-stained,  kept  opening  and  closing  like  a 
squeezed  purple  snapdragon.  His  nostrils  twitched;  his  dull 
eyes  blinked  and  blinked.  He  knelt  by  the  ashes,  began  grop- 
ing among  them.  Long'un  could  see  the  skin  of  his  pallid 
hands  blister  as  they  touched  red  embers. 

But  the  blistering  fingers  did  not  falter;  the  purple  mouth 
gave  no  cry.  He  found  a  strip  of  meat,  lifted  it  to  his 
twitching  nostrils,  smelt  at  it.  ...  Then,  wordless  still, 
Cyprian  Beamish,  vegetarian,  crouched  down,  as  feeding 
wolves  crouch,  flat  on  his  belly,  legs  stiff  and  straight  behind 
him,  head  raised;  drew  the  meat  to  his  mouth  with  his 
blistered  paws;  began  tearing  at  it  sideways  with  his  teeth. 

Phu-nan,  returning  with  the  rice,  opened  mouth  to  scream. 
De  Gys  clapped  a  huge  hand  over  his  face.  "Silence!" 
hissed  Rene  de  Gys.  "The  Little  Ingrit  feeds.  Cook  more 
meat  for  the  Little  Ingrit."  The  Long'un  could  not  have 
spoken  to  save  a  man's  life,  for  the  Long'un  was  watching 


OLD  THINGS  335 

Beamish 's  eyes,  and  Beamish 's  eyes,  jerked  sideways  each 
time  teeth  tore  at  their  meat,  were  no  longer  the  vacant  eyes 
of  a  sleep-walking  man.  They  were  eyes  of  an  awakened 
beast — red-rimmed,  fiery.  .  .  . 

For  a  whole  hour  they  fed  the  beast  which  had  been 
Beamish:  Phu-nan  cooking;  de  Gys  taking  the  cooked  strips 
from  Phu-nan's  fingers,  passing  them  over  the  beast's  back 
to  the  Long'un;  Long'un  dropping  them  under  the  beast's 
eyes,  watching  its  hands  claw  for  them,  claw  them  to  its 
mouth.  .  .  . 

"He  seems  to  have  finished,"  whispered  the  Long'un. 

"It  grows  late,"  whispered  de  Gys.     "We  must  arm." 

The  beast's  tongue  slavered  satiate  over  the  chewed 
gristle.  It  drew  itself  to  its  elbows,  drew  its  legs  under  it, 
stood  on  all  fours,  blinking. 

"Feeling  better,  old  man?"  asked  the  Long'un. 

The  beast  gave  no  answer.  Its  eyes  blinked  at  them, 
through  them.  It  shook  itself.  It  raised  one  paw  from  the 
ground;  scratched  at  its  taut  belly.  Then,  stealthily,  it 
crept  across  the  alabaster  floor,  round  Gaston's  throne,  to  the 
Old  Things.  ...  Its  paws  groped  among  the  Old 
Things.  ...  It  reared  itself  up,  terrible — it  became 
Beamish,  the  blood-light  in  his  mad  eyes — Beamish,  blistered 
hands  gripping  a  musket-barrel.  .  .  . 

"Curse  you!"  shouted  Cyprian  Beamish.  "God's  curse 
on  both  of  you !  You've  stolen  my  dreams  from  me."  Foam 
flecked  his  lips.  He  rushed  at  them,  brandishing  the 
musket-butt. 

"Easy  on,  old  man.  Easy  on!"  Long'un,  springing  to 
his  feet,  seized  the  madman's  wrists;  tore  the  rusted  iron 
from  him;  flung  it  to  the  floor.  "If  you  want  to  fight,  why 
not  help  us  fight  the  Harinesians?" 

Clank  of  the  falling  iron  seemed  to  sober  Beamish.  A 
cunning  look  flickered  in  his  dull  eyes.  "I'd  fight  God 
Himself  for  my  dreams,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish. 

"Quest-ce  quil  dit?"  De  Gys  was  already  picking  his 
harness  from  the  heap  on  the  floor. 

"  Damned  if  I  know,"  said  the  Long'un.     "Some  rubbish 


336  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

or  other.     Look  here,  doc,  do  you  mean  to  say  you'll  help 
us?" 

Cyprian  Beamish,  pacifist,  only  nodded.  The  line  of  his 
lips  closed — tight,  red,  resolute.  And  all  that  night  they 
got  but  one  other  word  from  him.  What  went  on  behind 
those  dull  eyes,  what  impulses  moved  those  nerved,  tireless 
arms,  neither  of  the  two  had  time  to  guess.  They  thought 
him  crazy,  not  realizing  his  craziness  akin  to  their  own.  But 
they  made  use  of  his  craziness.  They  let  him  help  harness 
them;  they  let  him  help  harness  Phu-nan;  they  loaded  him 
as  men  load  mules,  with  quivers,  with  de  Gys'  telescope,  with 
the  last  tube  of  rice,  with  a  haunch  of  the  deer,  with  water- 
gourds,  with  a  sound  cutlass  and  a  rusty  mattock  they  found 
among  the  Old  Things;  and  when,  shouldering  his  burdens 
as  though  they  were  finery,  he  looked  up  at  them,  stam- 
mered, "Rifle — Rifle,"  they  humoured  his  lunacy — picking 
the  least  useless  of  the  bayoneted  weapons  from  the  scat- 
tered pile,  thrusting  the  worm-eaten  stock  into  his  eager 
hands. 


"And  now,"  said  Rene  de  Gys,  "since  we  go  to  fight  our 
last  fight,  I  commend  my  soul  to  the  Virgin."  Lights  of 
Rock  o'  Dreams  shimmered  roseate  on  the  great  blade  as  he 
drew  Sword  Straight  from  its  loop,  lifted  it  in  salute,  kissing 
the  cross  of  the  hilt  with  his  bearded  lips. 


CHAPTER  THE  TWENTY-NINTH 

The  Battle  of  Warm  Water  Ford 

IT  WAS  past  midnight  when  those  four  clanked  out 
through  the  columned  entrance- way  of  Rock  o'  Dreams ; 
disappeared  down  the  avenue.  It  was  an  hour  past 
midnight  when  the  Long'un — striding  like  a  god  of  brass  in 
the  van — saw  the  twin  rocks,  ghostly  and  glimmering  among 
the  shadows  ahead. 

All  this  time  no  word  had  passed  between  them.  Now, 
halting,  Long'un  spoke: 

"We  make  enough  noise  to  wake  all  Harinesia.  Damn 
this  armour!  A  man  can't  dig  in  armour."  He  stripped  off 
his  breast-plate,  back-plate,  greaves,  and  sollerets;  took  the 
mattock  from  the  amazing  load  on  Beamish's  shoulder. 

"I  also  propose  to  dig — with  my  hands,"  said  de  Gys. 
"Phu-nan  can  help  us."  They,  too,  disharnessed. 

"You've  got  to  stay  here,  Beamish.  Here!  Do  you 
understand?"  ordered  the  Long'un.  The  doctor  nodded; 
began  to  lay  down  his  burdens.  "Will  you  be  all  right  by 
yourself  ? ' '  Another  nod . 

So  they  left  him,  still  in  his  crumpled  toga,  squatting 
among  the  equipment. 

"Am  I  to  be  robbed  of  my  dreams?"  muttered  Beamish. 
"Never.  Even  if  they  were  wrong  dreams,  I  would  wade 
through  blood  rather  than  abandon  them.  White  or  yellow 
—what  matter  ?  Whosoever  seeks  to  steal  my  dreams  from 
me  shall  die."  For  now,  even  in  Beamish — though,  as  yet, 
his  fuddled  brain  could  not  decide  between  friend  and  foe 
nor  distinguish  false  dreams  from  true — the  stubborn  spirit 
of  Anglo-Saxondom  was  astir.  .  .  . 

"Devil  take  the  place,"  muttered  Rene  de  Gys,  as  the 

337 


338  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

three  made  the  passage  between  the  rocks,  "it's  as  dark  as  a 
wolf's  mouth." 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't  talk  of  wolves,  mon  ami.  Did  you 
see  the  doctor's  face  when  he  was  eating?  Did  you  see  his 
eyes?"  Long'un,  gripping  the  Frenchman's  arm,  guided 
him  towards  the  shadow  of  the  parados. 

"Yes — I  saw.     Is  he  mad,  think  you?    Or  only  afraid?" 

"The  Lord  knows." 

They  stumbled  against  the  parados,  halted. 

"I  want  a  smoke,"  grumbled  de  Gys.  "Thunder  of  God, 
but  I  want  a  smoke.  Is  it  worth  while  digging  in,  friend?  Is 
it  worth  while  waiting  for  them?  We  could  go  up  now,  in  the 
dark,  fall  upon  then*  camp — kill  our  fifty." 

"I  thought  of  that."  The  Long'un  dug  his  heels  into  the 
rotten  bank.  "But  what  good  would  it  do?  Whereas,  if  we 
can  beat  them  off  for  just  one  day — perhaps,  when  they  see 
us  fighting,  these  countrymen  of  yours " 

"No  countrymen,  no  countrywomen  of  mine!"  muttered 
de  Gys.  "Pah!  By  the  seven  sales  Boches  I  slew  at  Doua- 
mont,  I  don't  know  why  we  should  fight  at  all." 

"Nor  I,"  admitted  the  Long'un. 

"Master,"  whispered  the  Moi's  voice  out  of  the  dark- 
ness behind  them,  "there  is  a  man.  He  crawls  to  the 
ditch." 

"One  man?" 

"Aye,  master.     One  man  only." 

De  Gys  translated.  Now,  listening  intently,  they  heard 
sounds — laboured  breathing  as  of  a  runner  hard  pressed — 
patter  of  dry  earth  on  leaves — a  body  falling  on  leaves. 
Then,  silence. 

"  Someone  in  the  ditch,"  whispered  the  Long'un.  "Laissez 
Jaire"  He  snaked  down  into  the  trench,  peered  over  the 
parapet.  Nothing!  He  crawled  to  the  right,  peered  over 
again.  Nothing!  He  crawled  to  the  left;  heard  the  breath- 
ing once  more — very  faint.  He  slipped  into  the  ditch; 
snaked  his  way  through  the  orchids.  .  .  .  The  scout — 
unconscious  of  danger — lay  breast  to  parapet.  The  Long'un 
crawled  nearer;  stopped.  ...  It  wasn't  a  scout — it  was 


THE  BATTLE  339 

one  of  the  Flower  Folk.  ...  He  could  just  make  out 
white  legs,  a  white  toga.  .  .  . 

The  Frenchman,  waiting  for  the  sound  of  a  scuffle,  heard 
voices.  "Gaston!"  "Oui,  c'est  moi"  "Vous  pouvez 
marcher  ?  "  "Pas  plus"  Feet  slithered.  He  perceived  the 
Long'un,  carrying  a  man  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  Gaston's  face,  but  somehow  they 
knew  he  must  be  dying.  They  propped  him  up;  made  him 
as  comfortable  as  they  might  in  the  utter  darkness.  Just 
before  his  soul  passed,  the  poet  spoke  to  them: 

"I  was  by  the  water-courses.  I  heard  someone  calling 
with  a  loud  cry :  'Aux  armes,  citoyens  !  The  enemy  is  upon 
us.'  I  ran  to  the  ford.  I  saw  no  enemy.  But  there  was 
light — red  light — beyond  the  Black  Egg.  I  went  up  to  the 
Egg.  There  are  fires.  There  is  a  huge  white  beast.  There 
are  Tonkineses " 

"How  many?"  De  Gys'  voice,  hoarse  with  emotion. 

"Five  fires.  At  each  fire  fifty  men.  No  guns.  Bows  and 
arrows.  Spears.  Swords.  Sentries  are  watchful.  One  shot 
at  the  noise  I  made.  The  arrow  pierced  me,  but  I  did  not 
cry  out.  Rouse  the  people.  I  can  do  no  more." 

Skull  thudded  dully  against  parados.  Body  crumpled; 
slithered  sideways  to  the  turf. 

"One  just  man,"  quoted  the  Long'un. 

"I  know  now  why  we  should  fight,"  said  Rene  de  Gys. 

For  what  remained  of  the  night,  those  three  dug,  scooping 
out  the  ditch  with  hand  and  helmet,  burying  Gaston — as  was 
his  right — in  the  forefront  of  their  defences ;  mattocking  para- 
pet and  parados  together  till  bulwark  rose  high  enough  to 
protect  the  bare  flesh  between  brazen  greaves  and  kilt  of 
mail. 

Grayly,  night  passed  from  Warm  Water  Ford.  They  saw 
each  other,  sweat-grimed,  dirt-grimed.  They  saw  sky-line, 
black  over  blackest  gray.  They  saw  the  wraith  of  the  Stone. 
They  saw  the  wraiths  of  the  fountains.  They  hurried 
away,  through  the  cleft  in  the  rocks,  to  snatch  food  and 
smoke. 

Beamish  had  not  moved.    When  the  diggers  returned  to 


340  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

him,  he  did  not  speak.  While  they  ate,  he  served  them. 
When  they  had  finished  eating,  he  helped  them  with  their 
harness.  When,  taking  fire  from  Phu-nan 's  fire-stick,  they 
lit  cheroots,  he  pushed  aside  the  cheroot  they  offered  him. 
When,  cheroots  finished,  they  set  off  without  him,  he  shoul- 
dered his  useless  musket,  gripped  his  cutlass,  followed  like  a 
dog. 

"He  is  struck  dumb,"  whispered  de  Gys.  "I  have  seen 
brave  men  thus  before  a  big  attack." 

"I,  too,"  answered  the  Long'un. 

They  halted,  hidden  from  the  enemy,  between  the  rock- 
walls.  Dawn  had  not  yet  come,  but  the  narrow  slip  of  sky 
already  showed  like  smoked  glass  above  their  heads. 

"Your  plans,  Colonel?"  De  Gys  planted  his  two  boar- 
spears  in  the  turf,  twanged  thoughtfully  on  the  string  of 
Phu-nan's  long-bow.  "I  am  no  good  with  this  toy." 

"Phu-nan  isn't  much  of  a  shot,  either."  The  Long'un 
laughed  as  a  man  who  knows  his  task  nearly  hopeless.  "And 
one  has  only  the  face,  the  knee,  or  the  arm  to  shoot  at.  But 
they'll  have  to  cross  the  shoal;  and  even  Phu-nan  ought  to  be 
able  to  hit  a  face  at  that  range.  Does  he  know — what  the 
chances  are?" 

"Aye — he  understands."  De  Gys  said  something  to  the 
Moi,  who  grinned,  brandished  the  hunting-bows.  "But 
Beamish?  Does  Beamish  understand?" 

The  doctor,  who  had  been  following  their  words,  reddened 
eyes  looking  now  at  one  vast  mailed  figure,  now  at  the  other, 
nodded  his  head  vigorously,  flourished  the  cutlass. 

"Very  well,  then.  The  plan's  simple.  From  our  earth- 
work to  the  edge  of  the  fern  is  about  a  bowshot.  While 
they're  coming  down,  all  of  us  keep  out  of  sight.  I  shall 
loose  off  at  maximum  range.  You  remember  their  old- 
fashioned  tactics " 

"You  will  give  no  warning?"  interrupted  de  Gys.  "They 
warned  us  at  Outer  Gate." 

"They  owe  me  a  life  or  so  for  Judgment  Night,"  said  the 
Long'un,  grimly.  "For  that  debt  I  hope  to  take  full  pay- 
ment before  they  reach  the  ford.  Till  then,  Skelvi  fights 


THE  BATTLE  341 

alone;  neither  you  nor  Phu-nan  must  risk  an  arrow.  You 
must  not  even  show  yourselves." 

"G'estfou,"  rumbled  de  Gys.     "They'll  rush  us." 

"They  will  not  rush  us.  When  they  see  you  two  rise  up 
they  will  think  you  a  thousand  Bloo  Loy.  Therefore,  keep 
out  of  sight  till  they  reach  the  ford." 

Single-file,  Long'un  leading,  de  Gys  in  rear,  the  four 
sidled  along  the  rocks;  crept  to  the  earthwork. 

"There  isn't  a  dog's  chance,"  mused  the  Long'un,  "not  one 
chance  in  a  million."  He  took  right  of  the  line;  slipped  off 
his  helmet;  wriggled  up  the  earthwork;  peered  over. 

"See  anything?"  called  de  Gys,  twenty  feet  away  by  the 
left-hand  rock-wall. 

"Precious  little." 

Mist  shrouded  the  valley.  Above,  fountains  sparkled 
vaguely,  murmurous  in  gray  slather.  Beyond,  ridge  and 
Stone  humped  dark  against  pallid  sky-line. 

Lying  there  at  watch,  Beamish  beside  him,  the  Honourable 
Richard  began  to  feel  very  sorry  for  himself.  It  seemed  a 
fool's  game,  this  war.  Still,  the  Flower  Folk  might  help. 
Some  other  miracle  might  happen.  And  anyway.  .  .  . 
"Oh,  blast  it !"  he  thought.  "What's  the  good  of  arguing  with 
oneself!  .  .  ."  He  remembered  something  de  Gys  had 
once  said:  "There  are  no  limits  in  the  game  of  the  white 
against  the  yellow."  Then,  eyes  still  on  the  Stone,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  there  were  two  Stones;  that  the  second  Stone 
moved. 

Beamish  still  wore,  slung  round  his  neck,  de  Gys'  telescope- 
case — sole  anachronism  in  the  mediaeval  picture.  Long'un 
undid  the  straps  of  the  case,  withdrew  the  instrument;  wiped 
the  lens  with  Beamish 's  toga;  focussed  and  sighted;  gave  a 
low  whistle  of  amazement. 

The  second  Stone  was  Nak!  And  Nak — as  far  as  the 
Long'un  could  make  out  in  that  uncertain  light — wore 
armour.  He  could  just  see  men  in  the  quaint  conning- 
tower  on  Nak's  head;  and,  single-file  in  front  of  Nak,  the 
helmets  of  the  companies.  Nak  and  the  Harinesians 
disappeared  in  mist. 


342  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"They're  coming,"  announced  Long'un.  He  closed  the 
telescope;  put  it  back  in  its  case  on  Beamish's  shoulders; 
strapped-to  the  case. 

Beamish  never  moved;  only  his  reddened  eyes  turned  in- 
quiringly. "They're  coming,"  repeated  the  Long'un. 
"Don't  forget  you're  not  to  move  till  I  give  the  word."  He 
called  across  to  de  Gys:  "Us  arrivent";  re-adjusted  his 
helmet;  buckled  bracer  on  left  forearm;  rose;  took  quiver; 
began  to  plant  his  long  black  arrows  on  the  top  of  the  earth- 
work. Then,  stringing  Skelvi,  he  leaned  against  the  rock  to 
await  his  enemy. 

Slowly  mist  thinned  across  the  valley.  Now,  rosy  behind 
the  Stone,  dawn  grew.  Long'un  looked  down  glacis  and 
ford,  measured  them  with  an  anxious  eye;  thanked  his  stars 
for  the  narrowness  of  the  glacis,  for  the  sheer  marble  which 
edged  the  glacis,  for  the  sizzling,  frizzling  waters  which  edged 
the  ford;  calculated  his  distances;  called  to  de  Gys:  "Twenty- 
five  metres  to  the  farther  side  of  the  river.  Will  our  throwing- 
axes  kill  at  that  range?" 

"Hardly — better  keep  the  axes  till  they're  across  the 
shoal." 

Mist  rolled  away.  Now,  dew-glimmering  beyond  dew- 
glimmering  turf,  appeared  the  sea  of  fern. 

"Plenty  of  time,"  thought  the  Long'un.  He  considered 
his  position.  The  closer  he  could  edge  to  the  rock,  the 
better.  Thus,  since  one  stood  sideways  to  the  bow,  breast 
and  bow  to  the  rock,  they  would  have  to  shoot  from  their 
right — more  or  less  at  his  back.  And  they  were  all  left-eyed. 
The  Long'un  chuckled.  He  tried  a  stance.  Excellent !  His 
arrow  would  follow  the  line  of  the  rock.  He  fidgeted  with 
the  left  cheek-piece  of  his  helmet;  took  stance  again;  tried  to 
imagine  what  target  he  would  present.  An  eye — and  his 
bow-arm! 

"Damn  the  bow-arm,"  he  muttered.  "  If  they  get  that, 
I'm  done  in." 

Then  he  forgot  about  his  bow-arm;  forgot  everything 
except  the  offensive.  As  gauze  clears  from  the  back-cloth  of 
a  theatre,  mist  cleared  from  the  hillside :  revealing  the  deep 


THE  BATTLE  343 

ceinture  of  geyser-gushes;  and  above  the  tall  feathers  of  the 
geyser-gushes,  Nak's  huge  carapace,  manned  conning-tower 
a-top.  Now,  red  ball  of  sun  topped  dark  egg  of  Stone  at 
sky-line;  and  the  Long'un  saw,  winking  single-file  along  the 
path  through  the  fountain-belt,  the  helmets  of  his  foes. 

"A  snake,"  he  thought.     "A  snake  of  brass." 

The  head  of  the  snake  glided  into  fern-sea;  the  body  of 
the  snake  straightened  behind  its  head,  drove  straight  for 
Warm  Water  Ford.  Already,  halfway  across  the  fern,  the 
leading  men  showed  as  brass  bottles.  .  .  . 

Long'un  plucked  a  black  shaft  from  his  arrow-garden, 
knew  himself  afraid.  The  old  fear:  one  might  be  blinded! 
His  legs  shook,  rattling  greaves  and  sollerets.  Beamish 
looked  up.  "Keep  your  blasted  head  down,"  said  the 
Long'un.  Fear  passed;  feet  grew  steady;  blue  eyes  hardened 
to  steel  spear-points.  He  fitted  his  arrow;  raised  Skelvi; 
flexed  slowly,  sighting  along  the  rock. 

Their  leading  man  was  thirty  yards  from  the  edge  of  the 
fern — twenty-five  yards.  He  could  just  see  the  face — a  blob 
of  yellow.  They  came  on  confidently.  "Damn  them!  they 
aren't  even  afraid  of  us.  They  think  it's  a  picnic !  I'll  show 
them  how  we  picnic  among  the  fern,"  muttered  some  ances- 
tral ghost  through  the  lips  of  Richard  Smith. 

Barb  drew  to  bow-back.  Skelvi  twanged.  Long'un  saw, 
under  bow-hand,  the  yellow  blob  stop  moving  as  black  sliver 
darted  home:  saw  the  man  topple  backwards;  plucked  an- 
other arrow;  shot  again;  heard  the  dull  clang  of  his  first 
target  before  second  arrow  pierced  victim's  throat;  saw 
brazen  snakehead  flatten  to  fern;  waited.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  kill?"  asked  de  Gys. 

"Twice."  The  thin  column  had  halted;  was  lying  down. 
Nak,  huge  as  a  Dreadnought,  carapaced  as  a  tortoise,  conning- 
tower  gleaming  above  white  dome  of  head,  lumbered  through 
the  fountain-belt;  stood  still;  began  cropping  at  the  bracken. 
Movement  began  among  the  waves  of  the  bracken.  The 
Harinesians  were  spreading  out,  forming  line.  Suddenly, 
just  out  of  range,  a  yellow  plume  rose  above  the  fern-glimmer. 
One  of  their  captains?  Yes — Akiou! 


344  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

The  little  bottle-shaped  figure  lifted  its  bow;  laid  bow, 
sword,  and  axes  ostentatiously  on  the  ground;  lifted  both 
hands  above  its  helmet;  marched  for  the  ford. 

"Seen  that  before!"  chuckled  the  Long'un. 

"Kam!  "  called  Akiou,  hands  still  above  his  head.  He  ran 
across  the  turf  to  the  edge  of  the  shoal.  The  Long'un's 
enormous  figure  topped  its  earthwork,  flexed  bow  to  full 
length  of  arrow-shaft. 

"Nik  mee  vyeet!"  ordered  the  Long'un. 

"Ha.  It  is  thou,  Bearer  of  Skelvi."  The  Harinesian  spoke 
in  Kwan-hwa;  hands  still  above  his  head,  eyes  looking 
cunningly  up  the  glacis.  "Where  hides  Bearer  of  Sword 
Straight,  and  the  merchant  who  loves  rice-wine,  and  the 
brown  man?" 

"Speak  thine  own  language,  Akiou." 

The  Harinesian  started,  repeated  his  question  in  the 
guttural  jargon  of  yellow-island-country,  adding:  "Where 
didst  thou  learn  our  language?" 

"From  thee  and  thine  and  a  former  enemy,  Akiou." 
Slowly,  Bow  Skelvi  unflexed.  Slowly,  Akiou's  gauntleted 
hands  dropped  to  kilted  flanks.  "To  whom  also  I  owe  this 
armour.  Go  back  to  thy  men,  Akiou.  Lead  them  home  to 
Bu-ro.  Here,  they  may  not  pass." 

The  Harinesian  laughed.  "Even  Bow  Skelvi  cannot  hold 
this  place  unaided." 

"Bow  Skelvi  is  not  alone.  Behind  Bow  Skelvi  stand  a 
thousand  giants  of  the  Bloo  Loy,  fire-weapons  in  their 
hands." 

Again  the  Captain  of  the  Outer  Gates  laughed  in  his 
enemy's  face : 

"Tell  that  to  the  Mandarins,  foxy  one.  We  of  the  Bow 
know  better." 

"To  make  certain  of  thy  knowledge,  Akiou,  w,ill  cost  the 
lives  of  many." 

"Thou  wilt  fight  us — alone?"  His  enemy  deigning  no 
answer,  the  Harinesian  went  on:  "Listen!  to  thee  and  to 
Bearer  of  Sword  Straight,  and  to  the  merchant  who  loves 
rice-wine,  I  bring  a  gracious  message  from  His  Transparency 


THE  BATTLE  345 

the  Emperor.  Kun-mer — now  Emperor  of  yellow-island- 
country,"  ("I  thought  that  would  happen,"  mused  the 
Long'un")  "sends  greetings.  He  offers  first  choice  of  the 
women  of  the  Bloo  Loy,  the  share  of  the  Flower  as  was 
arranged,  safe-conduct  to  Bu-ro,  and  thence  to  the  country 
of  the  phalangse!" 

"Tell  Kun-mer" — the  Long'un's  voice  was  very  stern — 
"that  I  refuse.  Tell  him  that  the  blood  of  Ha-co  cries  for 
vengeance.  Tell  him  I  have  sworn  by  his  gods,  by  Ko-nan 
and  by  Mahl-tu,  that  no  Harinesian  shall  pass  this  ford." 

Blank  amazement  showed  in  the  Harinesian's  eyes.  "But 
why,  Bearer  of  Skelvi?  Why?  We  offer  life,  we  offer 
merchandise,  we  offer  choice  of  the  women.  And  thou 
choosest  rather  death  by  the  bow." 

"Death  or  life,"  answered  the  Long'un,  "let  the  gods — 
thine  or  mine — decide.  Here,  no  Harinesian  shall  pass." 

"But  why,  Bearer  of  Skelvi,  why?  We  be  both  soldiers, 
thou  and  I.  Tell  me:  why  should  we  fight  together?  The 
women  of  the  Bloo  Loy  be  many — enough  for  thee  and  thy 
friends,  for  Us  of  the  Bow,  and  for  His  Transparency  the 
Emperor.  The  men  of  the  Bloo  Loy  will  not  help  thee." 

"That,"  rasped  the  Long'un,  "thou  dost  not  yet  know." 

But  Akiou,  helm  winking  in  the  sun,  could  only  stammer: 
"The  cause,  Bearer  of  Skelvi?  The  cause  of  this  fight  be- 
tween us?" 

And  all  the  white  man  in  Richard  Smith  made  its  answer  to 
all  yellow-island-country,  calling  harsh  challenge  down  the 
glacis  to  the  ford :  "  The  cause  is  the  cause  of  the  strong  who 
battle  for  the  weak  and  the  helpless,  Akiou.  Couldst  thou 
but  understand  it,  there  might  be  truce  in  the  age-long  fight 
between  thine  and  mine." 

Sorrowfully,  knowing  that  many  sane  Harinesians  must 
perish  because  of  this  one  white  lunatic,  Akiou,  Captain  of 
the  Outer  Gates,  withdrew  from  the  parley. 

"And  now,"  mused  the  Long'un,  as  he  scrambled  back  into 
cover,  "for  a  little  benevolent  force."  A  moment  he  looked 
at  the  prone  forms  of  his  three  companions — Beamish,  bare- 
legged, sullen  as  a  dog,  dangerous;  the  Moi,  resigned  to  wait 


346  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

all  day;  de  Gys,  fidgeting  at  bow  and  sword-hilt  with  his 
huge  stained  hands.  A  moment  he  watched  Akiou's  figure 
stooping  for  its  weapons.  Then,  without  warning,  came 
twang  of  a  long-bow  volley,  whistle  of  shafts  against  the  sun, 
splash  of  barbs  to  water. 

The  Harinesians  were  shooting  from  the  fern,  bows  hori- 
zontal, crawling  forward  as  they  shot,  giving  no  target.  A 
second  volley  twanged — still  short;  yet  a  third.  Wood  and 
feathers  sizzled  in  the  frizzling  waters. 

Long'un  watched  the  fern.  Sun,  rising  higher  and  whiter 
between  white  rock-walls,  baffled  his  eyes;  blinded  him  to  the 
first  rush  from  their  extreme  right.  Before  he  realized  it  ten 
men  were  up,  sprinting  for  the  open  turf.  He  shot — missed; 
saw  them  stand  for  their  volley;  flexed,  drew,  shot  again; 
ducked  instinctively  as  their  arrows  plunked  into  the  glacis; 
looked  to  his  target. 

He  had  killed  his  man.  The  others  were  lying  down.  The 
second  rush,  according  to  Harinesian  tactics,  would  come 
from  their  left.  He  heard  the  clink  of  it,  but  saw  nothing  on 
account  of  the  rock.  More  arrows  splashed  and  sizzled  in 
the  frizzling  waters. 

From  the  next  rush  he  killed  a  brace — one  as  they  ran 
forward,  one  as  they  stood  to  shoot;  the  third  face  he  missed, 
his  shaft  shattering  on  the  breast-plate. 

"Fools,"  thought  the  Long'un.  "Why  don't  they  cover 
their  rushes?" 

So  the  game  went  on — rush,  stand,  shoot,  lie  down — for  a 
full  half-hour.  Already  a  hedge  of  crimson  shafts  blocked 
the  glacis;  already  nine  Harinesians  were  down;  but  already 
the  mailed  line — face-to-ground,  invulnerable  under  its 
back-plates — was  fifty  yards  beyond  the  edge  of  the  fern. 
Behind  the  line,  invulnerable  under  his  carapace,  cropping  as 
he  came,  lumbered  Nak. 

"'Ware  arrows!"  shouted  the  Long'un.  Ten  men  were 
up,  racing  forward.  He  shot  one  through  the  knee,  saw  him 
spin,  flattened  himself  against  rock  as  the  shafts  sang  down, 
heard  them  splinter  above  his  head,  turned  to  the  second 
rush,  killed,  felt  a  frightful  blow  on  his  left  cheek-piece, 


THE  BATTLE  347 

dropped  to  one  knee,  spat  the  blood  from  his  mouth,  rose 
flexing,  shot  wide,  grabbed  another  arrow.  .  .  .  Beamish, 
crouching  below  parapet,  saw  barbs  striking  fire  from  armour, 
saw  Skelvi  working  like  mad,  heard  the  whole  air  a-whistle 
with  falling  shafts.  .  .  . 

"Phew,"  said  the  Long'un. 

"How  many?"  called  de  Gys. 

"The  Lord  knows.  This  isn't  target  practice.  Don't 
talk  so  loud.  They're  at  three  hundred  already."  He 
could  see  Akiou  and  Keo,  crawling  up  and  down  the  line, 
giving  orders.  Nak  came  to  the  edge  of  the  fern.  There 
were  six  men  in  Nak's  conning-tower. 

Instinctively,  mindful  of  his  training  in  the  forest  of  Outer 
Gates,  the  Long'un  knew  that  the  captains'  orders  must 
have  been  to  form  semi-circle.  To  form  semi-circle  would 
mean  a  long  rush  for  the  right  section.  Rush  began.  .  .  . 
Long'un  shot  carefully,  dropping  three  as  they  ran,  a  fourth 
as  they  stood  to  shoot.  Six  shafts,  flurried  at  aim,  splintered 
high  on  marble:  but  now  six  invulnerable  men  lay  a  bare 
sixty  yards  from  the  shoal. 

Immediately,  from  Nak's  carapace,  covering  volleys  began. 
But  Nak  was  restless:  the  shafts  went  wide. 

Left  section  made  its  rush,  lost  its  men,  fell  flat.  More 
rushes — more  arrows  in  the  glacis — more  dead  on  the  turf. 
But  the  semi-circle  was  forming.  Centre  sections  came  on. 
The  semi-circle  was  formed.  More  rushes — more  dead. 
The  semi-circle  was  flattening.  It  drew  to  river-bank, 
hemming  in  its  prey.  Irresistibly,  inevitably  as  unflexed 
string  seeks  bow-belly,  it  sought  its  prey.  .  .  .  But  the 
prey  took  toll  of  it.  Behind  its  flattening  string  lay  the 
scattered  dead. 

The  dead  lay  scattered,  grotesque  heaps  of  ironmongery, 
all  about  the  turf.  Sun  winked  on  them;  winked  on  the 
crimson  arrow-beds  of  the  glacis;  winked  on  the  Long'un's 
helmet;  winked  on  the  white  back  of  Skelvi. 

Now,  at  that  range  when  driven  shaft  pierces  harness,  the 
Harinesians  were  afraid  of  Skelvi,  were  afraid  to  stand  up  and 
shoot  against  Skelvi.  But  they  came  on.  Right  wing, 


348  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

covered  by  the  rock,  vanished  from  the  Long'un's  ken — left 
wing  touched  rock-face.  Seen  between  rock-face  and  rock- 
face  their  centre  was  a  bar  of  yellow  brass  beyond  mother-of- 
pearl  water-shimmer.  Behind  the  bar,  restless  and  trumpet- 
ing, moved  Nak. 

Long'un  put  one  careful  arrow  into  Nak's  conning- tower; 
saw  him  rear  up,  white  forelegs  pawing  the  air;  saw  carapace 
bring  him  to  earth.  Long'un  shouted  towards  his  foes :  "  The 
next  rush  will  bring  them  to  the  shoal." 

"  C  9est  bon,  mon  ami"  muttered  the  voice  of  Rene  de 
Gys.' 

But  Keo,  thinking  himself  challenged,  rose  up,  bow  flexed, 

among  his  men.  "  The  Gate,"  shrieked  Keo,  "  the  Inner " 

Skelvi's  last  black  shaft  took  Keo  in  the  throat;  he  fell 
clanging  to  the  rush  of  his  sections.  .  .  .  Harinesian 
helmets  winked  at  water-level. 

The  Long'un,  looking  down  across  arrow-blockaded  glacis 
at  helmet-blockaded  shoal,  was  aware  that  Beamish  had 
moved  away  from  the  rock,  that  Beamish  lay  close  to  Phu- 
nan.  .  .  . 

The  battle  was  over.  He,  Dick  Furlmere,  had  killed  all 
those  prone  figures — the  prone  figures  at  Warm  Water  Ford 
were  all  dead.  .  .  .  They  showed  like  flat  effigies  of  brass 
let  into  the  green  turf.  .  .  .  They  were  the  flat  effigies  of 
brass  in  the  church  at  home,  Furlmere  Church.  ...  He 
was  dead  himself,  dead  and  buried.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 
He  was  not  dead — only  weary — weary  almost  to  death.  .  .  . 
He  felt  so  weary — so  utterly  weary.  .  .  .  He  was  in 
France  again — holding  Gavrelle  against  the  Huns.  .  .  . 
The  Huns  had  brought  up  a  tank,  a  super-tank. 

Hysteria  passed.  He  knew  the  tank  for  Nak.  The  men 
in  Nak's  conning-tower  wanted  Nak  to  charge  between  the 
prone  figures  at  the  ford.  But  Nak  refused.  Nak  backed 
away,  trumpeting,  from  the  prone  figures.  Nak  reared. 
Nak  whisked  on  his  hind-quarters  as  a  water-shy  horse 
whisks  from  water.  .  .  .  The  prone  figures  began  to 
move — they  moved  sideways — section  crawling  up  behind 
section — four  sections — forty  figures  in  all.  .  .  . 


THE  BATTLE  349 

"Up,  de  Gys!"  shouted  the  Long'un.  He  saw,  over  a 
hedge  of  crimson  arrows,  breast-plates  rise  at  the  ford, 
grabbed  among  the  arrows,  flexed  and  shot  at  the  breast- 
plates; saw  two  arrows  pierce  two  breast-plates. 

"  Up,  Phu-nan ! "  shouted  the  Long'un.  "  Up,  Beamish ! " 
What  was  the  use  of  "Up,  Beamish"?  Beamish  couldn't 
shoot.  Damn  it,  Beamish  was  shooting.  Beamish  had 
killed  that  second  man.  Beamish  had  killed  a  third.  Good 
old  Beamish.  .  .  .  De  Gys  was  killing,  too.  And  Phu- 
nan.  "Kill,"  shouted  the  Long'un.  "Kill  them  at  the 
ford." 

At  the  ford,  chaos!  Armour  clanging,  shafts  piercing, 
waters  sizzling  and  frizzling,  live  men  screaming  in  frizzling 
waters,  woundless  trampling  wounded,  wounded  trampling 
dead.  .  .  .  Above  the  ford,  Death !  three  mailed  figures 
and  a  man  in  white:  a  man  with  a  hunting-bow — shooting 
for  his  dreams. 

"Thunder  of  God,"  bellowed  Rene  de  Gys,  "they  roast 
like  armadilloes." 

A  remnant  struggling  back  from  the  ford!  Above  the 
ford,  respite! 


They  rested  together  at  the  earthwork.  Their  enemy  had 
disappeared  behind  the  edges  of  the  rocks.  Two  hundred 
yards  away  stood  Nak — enormous,  absurd,  skirted  in  brass, 
dancing  madly  on  four  white  tortoise  feet,  tambourining  in 
his  armour,  trunk  over  conning-tower. 

"We  win,  my  friend,"  gasconaded  Rene  de  Gys.  "By 
the  seven  sales  Bodies  I  slew  at  Douamont,  we  win!" 

"Wait.     It  isn't  over  yet." 

Beamish,  wild-eyed,  toga  torn,  hunting-bow  gripped 
awkwardly  in  left  hand,  said  nothing. 

"Wait!"  repeated  the  Long'un.  and  even  as  the  Long'un 
spoke  they  heard  Akiou  shriek,  "Forv!"  sprang  to  their 
places;  saw  two  lines  of  men  sweep  out  from  the  edges  of  the 
rocks;  race  for  the  ford.  .  .  . 

This  time  no  power  on  earth  could  dam  the  massed  tide  of 


350  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Harinesia.  It  poured  across  the  shoal.  They  shot  and  shot. 
Men  fell.  Men  toppled  sideways.  Men  shrieked  as  their 
toppling  bodies  touched  frizzling,  sizzling  waters.  But  be- 
hind the  toppling,  shrieking  men,  trampling  on  them,  spurn- 
ing them  under  solleret,  climbing  over  them,  making  their 
back-plates,  their  breast-plates,  their  very  faces,  a  bridge 
across  the  deadly  water,  poured  more  men — and  yet  more 
men.  .  .  . 

The  massed  tide  of  Harinesia  was  across  the  ford.  As  a 
tidal-bore  of  brass  it  burst  its  way  up  the  glacis — burst 
between  rock-wall  and  rock-wall — burst  through  the  crimson 
arrow-beds — burst  to  the  very  earthwork.  .  .  . 

Long'un,  flexing  Skelvi,  saw  thro  wing-axes  whirl;  shot; 
felt  Skelvi  torn  from  his  hands;  felt  crash  of  steel  on  his 
breast-plate;  staggered;  plucked  axe  from  belt;  hurled  axe; 
saw  a  white  figure  top  the  earthwork;  knew  the  white  figure 
for  Beamish;  heard  a  bellow  from  de  Gys;  drew  sword;  leapt 
ditch;  dashed  over.  .  .  . 

Long'un  was  at  work;  Phu-nan  was  at  work;  de  Gys  was  at 
work.  Sword  Straight  was  alive  in  de  Gys'  hand.  Its 
blade  lived.  Its  blade  had  a  great  red  beard — and  eyes — 
mad  red  eyes.  It  bellowed  with  its  blade — its  blade  flickered 
among  faces — bloody  faces — bloody  yellow  faces — piercing 
the  faces.  .  .  . 

But  Beamish !  Beamish  had  gone  Berserk.  His  eyes  were 
a  wolf's  eyes;  his  strength,  the  strength  of  ten  wolves.  His 
cutlass  lopped  a  yellow  arm,  drove  at  a  yellow  face.  Cutlass 
shattered  to  fragments.  His  musket-butt  heaved  up; 
crashed-in  a  helmet.  His  musket-butt  shattered  to  frag- 
ments. He  fought  them  with  his  musket-barrel.  Musket- 
barrel  whirled  in  his  hands,  battering  at  arms,  battering  at 
helmets,  battering  at  faces — bloody  faces — bloody  yellow 
faces — carving  out  a  circle  from  the  faces. 

For  a  moment  the  massed  tide  of  Harinesia  gave  back. 
For  a  moment,  breathless,  four  men  faced  seven  score.  And 
in  that  moment  the  wolf  gave  tongue.  "Have  at  them," 
bayed  Wolf  Beamish,  blood-light  -in  his  eyes.  "Have  at 
them.  They're  murdering  my  dreams." 


THE  BATTLE  351 

The  rest  was  madness:  Beamish,  howling  his  battle-cry, 
musket-barrel  lashing  right,  musket-barrel  lashing  left; 
Beamish,  battle-cry  forgotten,  bashing-in  faces,  smashing- 
down  helmets,  smashing-down  men;  de  Gys,  spears  broken, 
Sword  Straight  broken,  twin  axes  whirling  circles  of  fire  in 
his  enormous  hands;  De  Gys,  axeless,  trumpeting  like  an 
elephant,  bellowing  like  a  buffalo,  wrenching-off  helmets, 
wrenching-off  ears,  gouging-out  eyes,  wrenching-down  eye- 
less men  with  his  naked  hands;  Phu-nan,  beaten  to  his  knees, 
rising  from  his  knees,  beaten  down  again,  rising  again; 
Phu-nan  smashed  down,  smashed  under  solleret,  trampled 
under  solleret  by  howling  men;  Long'un,  weaponless,  word- 
less, kilt  torn  from  his  loins;  Long'un,  heaving  with  his 
bare  loins,  hacking  out  with  his  mailed  feet,  splintering 
helmets  with  his  bare  fists;  Long'un  hacking-in  breast-plates 
with  his  mailed  feet,  splattering  with  his  bare  fists  the  mad 
eyes  of  helmeted  men.  .  .  . 

So  they  won  to  the  ford.  Blood-fouled,  helmetless,  mania- 
cal: rolling  among  crimson  arrows,  rolling  down  the  glacis, 
rolling  between  the  rock-walls,  rolling  through  men,  men 
shrieking  round  their  heads,  men  tear  big  at  their  bodies, 
crushed  men  whiffling  under  their  rolling  bodies,  they  won  to 
the  ford. 

They  heaved  themselves  upright  at  the  ford,  saw  the  living 
man-pack  in  the  ford,  smelt  the  smell  of  the  dead  man-pack — 
blackened  bodies,  red-hot  armour,  in  the  frizzling,  sizzling 
waters  either  side  the  ford.  They  smelt  the  smell  of  the 
living  yellow  man-pack,  plunged  at  it  through  the  ford. 

They  fought  with  the  yellow  man-pack  by  the  frizzling, 
sizzling  waters.  .  .  .  They  flung  the  yellow  man-pack 
right  and  left  from  them  into  the  frizzling,  sizzling  waters. 
.  .  .  They  saw  Akiou's  yellow  plume  beyond  the  yel- 
loW  man-pack.  .  .  .  They  heard  mad  tambourining  be- 
yond the  frizzling,  sizzling  waters.  .  .  .  They  knew  the 
yellow  man-pack  harrying  them  to  death.  .  .  .  They 
knew  themselves  going  down  under  the  yellow  man-pack 
into  the  frizzling,  sizzling  waters.  .  .  .  They  heard  a 
voice,  an  English  voice,  howling  loud  above  the  howls  of 


352  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

the  yellow  man-pack,  howling  loud  across  the  frizzle  and 
the  sizzle  of  the  waters.  .  .  . 

"  tfak  I "  howled  the  voice,  Long'un's  voice,  "  Nak  !  Nak  ! 
Nak!" 

And  Nak  heard — for  Nak's  time  was  come  upon  him. 
Huge  as  hundred  horses,  Nak  reared  himself  erect. 

Harried  nigh  to  death  under  the  yellow  man-pack,  harried 
within  an  ace  of  death  among  the  boiling  dead  of  the  yellow 
man-pack,  the  three  grew  conscious  of  Nak's  vast  white 
underbelly,  of  columned  haunches,  of  conning-tower  a-topple 
on  Nak's  enormous  head,  of  mailed  bodies  shot  plummet- 
like  from  the  conning-tower,  of  Nak's  forequarter-annour 
riven  free,  of  Nak's  carapace  sliding  backwards  over  the 
mountains  of  his  hindquarters,  of  Nak's  shed  carapace  clang- 
crashing  to  ground,  of  thunder  and  of  trumpets. 

"Bur-room!  Bur-room!  Bur-room!"  trumpeted  Nak. 
Armour  thundered  on  the  ground  behind  him;  his  stamping 
pad-beats  thundered  on  the  ground.  Head  up,  trunk  up,  he 
thundered  by  his  armour;  thundered  on  the  ground. 

"Bur-room!  Bur-room!  Bur-room!"  trumpeted  Nak. 
They  of  the  Bow  fled  before  him.  Akiou  fled  before  him. 
He  thundered  after  Them  of  the  Bow.  He  thundered  after 
Akiou.  Akiou  went  down  under  him.  He  stamped  the 
armoured  Akiou  to  a  snail-jelly  under  the  Nasmyth  ham- 
mers of  his  thundering  pads. 

"Bur-room!  Bur-room!  Bur-room!"  trumpeted  Nak. 
Yellow  man-pack  fled  before  his  thunder  and  his  trumpets, 
fled  across  the  water  from  the  terrors  of  his  trumpets,  fled 
beyond  the  earthwork  at  his  thunder  on  the  ground. 

But  Nak  did  not  follow  the  yellow  man-pack.  His  time 
was  on  him;  his  vengeance  satisfied.  He  would  go  back  to 
the  forest — to  that  forest  by  the  sea  where  his  mother  had 
stood  four-square  above  him  while  the  bulls  fought  and  the 
trees  crashed  around  them.  And  this  man  of  his  own  colour 
— this  man  who  had  been  kind  to  him — he,  too,  perhaps 
wanted  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Nak,  as  was  his  custom,  knelt  to  be  mounted;  and  three 
blood-stained  automats  clambered  painfully  aboard. 


FLOWER  FOLK 
CHAPTER  THE  LAST 

The  grim  Justice  of  Ndk  the  Elephant 

GRADUALLY,  as  Nak  trotted  over  the  corpse-strewn 
turf-belt,  consciousness  flickered  up  in  the  mind  of 
Rene  de  Gys.  And  with  consciousness,  horror. 
Harinesia  had  won:  They  of  the  Bow  were  across  Warm 
Water  Ford  into  Floralia.  Sprawling  helpless  behind  the 
dome  of  the  elephant's  head,  clinging  with  bruised  limbs  to 
the  moving  neck-muscles,  grasping — as  tired  swimmer  grasps 
life-buoy — the  rim  of  an  enormous  ear,  Rene  de  Gys  dared 
not  look  back.  He  tried  to  turn  the  elephant,  failed,  knew 
the  Long'un  beside  him. 

"Where's  Beamish?"  gasped  the  Long'un.  "Where's 
Phu-nan?  We  must  go  back  for  them."  He,  too,  tried 
vainly  to  turn  their  mount. 

"My  brave  Phu-nan  died  on  the  glacis,"  said  the  French- 
man. "As  for  that  very  brave  one,  our  doctor " 

"I'm  here,"  called  Beamish's  voice.  "I'm  all  right.  I'm 
behind.  Are  either  of  you  wounded?" 

"Afew  scratches,"  gasped  the  Long'un — blood  blinding  him. 

The  doctor,  spread-eagled  on  elephant-skin,  sick  belly 
heaving  to  every  roll  of  elephant-back,  could  only  see  the 
soles  of  four  feet,  the  dinted  edges  of  four  Harinesian  sollerets. 

Nak  trotted  on;  made  fern-sea,  geyser-belt. 

Looking  down,  their  battle-weary  eyes  saw  spray  leap  at 
them  from  clefts  of  coral,  from  basins  of  jade  and  pools  of 
ivory.  Sun  sparkled  on  the  spray,  turning  it  to  gold  and 
silver.  The  spray  rose  higher,  drenching  them  with  warm 
liquid;  sank  away. 

353 


354  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"Mon  ami"  muttered  de  Gys. 

"Tudis?" 

"Thatwe  are  beaten,  that  we  fly,  that  the  Flower  Folk " 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Long'un,  gloomily.  "  What  would  you  ? 
We  did  our  best." 

"There  is  still  to  do.  We  must  go  back.  With  this 
animal ' 

"We  have  no  weapons " 

"We  can  find  weapons  and  to  spare  at  the  ford." 

"All  right,  mon  vieux"  The  Long'un  called  over  his 
shoulder  to  Beamish,  "Beamish,  de  Gys  wants  to  go  back. 
Are  you  game?" 

"Nak  won't  turn,"  said  a  new  Cyprian  Beamish.  "I've 
been  jabbing  at  him  with  the  telescope-case  ever  since  we 
started." 

"How  the  devil  did  you  save  the  telescope?" 

"  Goodness  knows.  I  found  it  still  strapped  to  my  shoulder 
when  we  mounted." 

"He'll  turn  for  me,"  said  the  Long'un.  But  Nak's  time 
was  upon  him.  He  would  turn  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left.  Straight  up  the  path  to  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
straight  for  the  Black  Egg  of  Quivering  Stone,  headed  Nak 
the  Elephant. 


They  reached  the  mouth  of  the  pit,  circled  the  pit;  and 
at  last,  on  the  Harinesian  side  of  Quivering  Stone,  halted. 
Nak  lifted  his  trunk,  slavered  with  its  tip  against  the  cool 
surface  of  the  Egg;  Nak  turned,  back  to  the  Egg,  red  eyes 
searching  for  the  path  he  must  take  along  the  switch-back 
ridges;  Nak  lumbered  fifty  yards  down  the  slope;  Nak  knelt — 
as  was  his  custom — for  dismounting.  The  fighting  had 
wearied  even  him;  he  needed  rest  before  starting  on  that  long 
journey  to  the  sea. 

As  the  three  slid  to  ground,  mountainous  croup  subsided 
with  a  dull  flump  on  the  brown  rocks;  little  red  eyes  closed, 
exiguous  tail  flicked  at  imaginary  flies;  semblance  of  a  snore 
came  from  the  extended  trunk. 


GRIM  JUSTICE  OF  NAK  355 

"He  sleeps  after  battle,"  said  Rene  de  Gys. 

"Like  a  good  soldier,"  said  Dicky. 

Beamish  kept  silent. 

The  three  presented  a  curious,  almost  comic,  picture: 
Dicky,  kiltless,  naked  about  the  middle,  dinted  greaves  be- 
Ipw,  dinted  breast-plate  above;  De  Gys,  almost  stark, 
beard  torn  from  his  face,  hair  torn  by  handfuls  from  his  head, 
knees  bleeding,  hands  red  with  Harinesian  gore;  Beamish, 
curiously  calm,  toga  hanging  in  wisps  about  his  bruised  loins, 
telescope-case  dangling  from  one  torn  shoulder.  But  there 
was  no  hint  of  comedy  in  their  unhappy  souls. 

"We  must  go  back  without  Nak,"  decided  de  Gys. 

"How  can  we  go  back  without  him? "  retorted  the  Long'un. 
"Look  below." 

They  looked  down  the  rock-slope,  saw  tiny  mailed  figures 
pointing  up  at  them  from  Last  Barracks. 

"This  is  the  end  of  the  trail,"  said  Rene  de  Gys,  "these 
yellow  swine  have  us  by  the  short  hairs,"  and  he  stretched 
out  both  red  hands  to  his  companions:  "Forgive  me,  I  have 
brought  you  to  your  deaths." 

Noise,  guggling  noise  from  far  down  in  the  bowels  of 
earth,  cut  short  speech.  The  Egg  quivered,  balanced  itself. 

"We're  not  dead  yet."  Beamish  spoke — the  new  Bea- 
mish— resolute,  single-purposed.  "It'll  take  them  a  good 
half -hour  to  get  within  bow-shot."  He  loped  off  up  the 
rock-slope;  and,  perforce,  the  two  followed  him. 

Nak  slept  on. 

Beamish,  unslinging  his  telescope,  circled  the  black  mouth 
of  the  pit;  stood  gazing  down,  for  the  last  time,  into  the 
valley  of  his  dreams.  But  the  dreams  of  Cyprian  Beamish 
were  all  dead — dead  as  those  prone  figures  he  could  see  by  the 
ford.  Only  one  dream  remained:  To  go  down  once  more 
into  the  valley;  through  those  murmurous  shimmering 
fountains,  across  that  trampled  fern-sea,  over  that  corpse- 
strewn  turf,  over  the  sickle-blade  of  that  frizzling  river — and 
there  die,  as  he  had  just  learned  to  live,  like  a  Man. 

He  focussed  the  telescope — sighted  Rock  o'  Dreams. 

Better  go  down,  equip  oneself  from  the  corpses  at  the  ford, 


356  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

better  die,  arms  in  one's  hand,  harness  on  one's  back,  on  that 
saffron  mead  by  Rock  o'  Dreams,  than  here,  on  the  bleak  hill- 
side, defenceless  before  harnessed  men.  Better  die  fighting 
for  one's  dreams — even  though  one  knew  them  come  untrue. 

Yet  had  the  dreams  come  so  untrue?  Was  it  not  he, 
Cyprian  Beamish,  who  had  been  untrue  to  his  dreams? 

Deep  in  the  pit  at  his  feet  noise  guggled.  He  was  aware  of 
the  Stone  quivering,  of  the  two  silent  giants  at  his  either 
shoulder. 

Those  two,  at  least,  had  not  been  false  to  their  dreams;  had 
toiled  for  them  and  for  him — while  he,  Cyprian  Beamish, 
had.  .  .  .  What  had  he  done?  What  had  he  not  left 
undone?  .  .  .  He,  the  false  man  of  science,  false  alike  to 
his  science  and  to  his  dreams. 

Those  two  had  been  false  to  no  dream:  one  for  his  country's 
sake  and  the  other  for  the  sake  of  his  friend,  they  had  accom- 
plished miracles,  removed  mountains — only  to  find,  beyond 
the  mountains,  a  doped  People;  a  People  whom  he,  the  man 
of  science,  might  have  cured,  might  have  made  whole.  .  .  . 
Not  in  the  Folk  but  in  the  Flower  lay  the  sin  of  the  Flower 
Folk — the  sin  of  illusion,  which  only  death  could  now  cure. 
Yet  death  was  very  kind,  in  death  both  he  and  the  Flower 
Folk  would  find  redemption. 

Beamish  took  the  telescope  from  his  eye. 

"There  is  no  guard  at  the  ford,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish. 
"Let  us  go  down;  and  die  like  men  with  the  men  of  the 
Flower  Folk.  Believe  me,  at  the  last,  even  they  will  perish 
fighting." 

"Too  late,"  muttered  Rene  de  Gys.  For  now  even  naked 
eyes  could  see  tiny  sparkles  of  yellow  fire  beyond  the  far  foam 
of  blossoming  tree-tops.  .  .  .  The  tiny  sparkles  drew 
clear  below  tree-tops;  moved  slowly  across  Saffron  Mead. 

"Not  too  late,"  said  Cyprian  Beamish,  and  lifted  the 
telescope.  "Not  too  late  for  them  to  kill  their  womenfolk 
with  their  naked  hands,  and  die  like  white  men."  Voice 
stopped  in  his  throat :  he  stood  transfixed,  glass  rigid  at  his 
eye.  .  .  .  Deep  in  the  pit  at  his  feet  noise  guggled. 
Behind  him  Black  Egg  quivered  against  blinding  sky. 


GRIM  JUSTICE  OF  NAK  357 

The  two  giants  looked  down  over  Beamish's  matted  head 
along  the  line  of  his  pointing  telescope  towards  Rock  o' 
Dreams.  The  tiny  sparkles  of  yellow  fire  had  drawn  close 
to  Rock  o'  Dreams;  and  now  dots  issued  from  the  Rock,  drew 
close  to  the  sparkles  of  yellow  fire. 

"You  were  right,  de  Gys,"  muttered  Cyprian  Beamish. 
"It  is  too  late!"  Then,  suddenly,  very  low,  "O  Christ! 
dear  Christ!  don't  let  it  happen.  Don't  let  it  happen.  .  .  ." 

And  even  as  the  two  giants  imagined  themselves  to  realize 
that  which  the  doctor  must  be  seeing,  he  whipped  the  tele- 
scope from  his  eye;  turned  on  them. 

"You  mustn't  look,"  said  Beamish,  speaking  quietly  as 
grown  men  speak  to  children.  "  I  forbid  you  to  look."  Once 
more,  precise,  unfaltering,  he  faced  Rock  o'  Dreams,  sighted, 
focussed  the  scientific  horror  clear.  Then,  with  never  a  cry, 
he  flung  his  telescope  into  the  mouth  of  the  pit. 

"Courage,"  said  Rene  de  Gys.  "You  looked  death 
closer  in  the  face  at  Warm  Water  Ford." 

"Dear  God!"  said  Cyprian  Beamish,  "he  thinks  I  have 
but  looked  upon  death.  And  I" — there  came  a  despairing 
calm  into  his  voice — "  I  would  have  looked  on  their  death 
so  gladly.  Dear  Christ!  Couldst  thou  not  spare  me  that 
last  illusion;  the  illusion  that  they  would  be  redeemed  by 
blood?  God?  Christ?  Who  am  I  to  talk  of  God  and  Christ : 
I — a  dope-fiend."  Shame  choked  him. 

"We  were  all  three  doped,  and  the  Flower  Folk  with  us." 
Pity  made  the  Long'un's  voice  very  gentle — for  now,  re- 
membering how  his  own  eyes  had  been  opened,  he  understood 
a  little  of  the  horror  which  must  be  in  Beamish's  soul.  But 
in  that  moment  hardly  God's  own  pity  could  have  touched 
the  despairing  soul  of  the  man  who  had  looked  his  last  upon 
illusion. 

"The  fault  was  mine,"  said  the  despairing  soul.  "Mine 
from  the  very  first.  I  knew,  knew  that  must  happen  if  we 
found  the  Flower.  Remember,  I  was  the  last  to  eat  of  it — 
that  first  time  we  ate  of  it  together.  I  saw  you  both  under 
its  influence:  I,  a  man  of  science.  Yet  I  made  myself  for- 
get what  I  had  seen.  Why  did  I  make  myself  forget?  Why? 


358  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

Because  I'm  a  dope-fiend:  because,  all  my  life,  I've  doped 
myself — with  drugs  and  with  delusions !  Aye,  delusions,  the 
drugs  of  weak  souls — Socialist  delusions,  Communist  delu- 
sions, Internationalist  delusions,  Utopian  delusions,  delu- 
sions"— cold  voice  broke  to  passion — "of  a  world  equalized 
beyond  humanity,  a  world  without  colour-bars,  without 
fight,  without  self-reliance,  a  world  of  doped,  drugged,  and 
deluded  weaklings,  a  world  without  strength,  a  world  without 
the  individual.  And  there,  down  there  in  that  valley  of 
sterile  flowers" — one  hand  pointed,  rigid  with  emotion,  to 
Rock  o'  Dreams — "my  dope  world  accomplishes  itself — in 
sin — in  the  sin  of  Sodom  and  of  Gommorrah." 

Again  noise  guggled  in  the  pit  at  their  feet:  again  Black 
Egg  of  the  Stone  quivered  against  blinding  sky.  And  now, 
mingling  with  the  noises  of  the  pit,  faint  as  yet  but  very  clear, 
the  three  heard  noises  from  beyond  the  Stone — far  shouts  of 
mailed  men,  far  clink  of  sollerets  climbing  naked  rock. 

"There  is  no  hope  left,"  muttered  Rene  de  Gys.  "For- 
give me,  friends." 

"We  may  yet  waken  Nak,"  said  the  Long'un. 

Beamish  said  no  word,  for  Beamish  was  praying.  "  Christ ! " 
he  prayed,  "dear  Christ,  if  there  be  any  force  of  Thine  on 
earth,  give  it  to  me  now,  that  I  may  end  this  horror  I  have 
made.  From  earth  or  from  heaven,  let  me  hear  Thy  Voice — 
this  once,  before  I  die." 

But  no  loud  Voice  came  from  Heaven  or  from  Earth  to 
help  the  man  Beamish,  only  a  whisper,  a  whisper  out  of  the 
Void.  "  Waters  under  the  earth,"  said  the  whisper.  "  Waters 
of  death.  Waters  in  the  pit,  Cyprian  Beamish.  Loose  the 
waters  in  the  pit.  Block  the  pit,  Cyprian  Beamish.  Block 
the  safety-valve  of  the  waters  of  death."  And  the  man 
Beamish,  by  that  very  science  he  had  betrayed,  understood 
the  whisper  out  of  the  Void. 

Once  more  de  Gys  heard  the  guggling  in  the  pit;  once  more 
he  heard  the  shouts  of  his  mounting  foes. 

"There  is  no  hope,"  muttered  de  Gys;  "we  are  weapon- 
less." 

"There  is  no  hope  of  life,"  said  the  man  Beamish.     "But 


GRIM  JUSTICE  OF  NAK  359 

there  is  hope  of  death  and  a  weapon  in  Quivering  Stone." 
He  flung  off  round  the  mouth  of  the  pit;  flung  himself  against 
the  Black  Egg  at  sky-line. 

For  a  moment  the  two  giants  watched  him.  Then,  in  a 
flash,  both  saw  the  thing  that  he  would  do. 

"Thunder  of  God!"  bellowed  de  Gys.  "It  is  the  only 
way.  Let  us  block  the  geysers.  Let  us  loose  the  geysers 
upon  them  before  we  die!"  And  they,  too,  dashed  for  the 
Stone;  dashed  breasts  against  it;  felt  it  shuddering  under 
their  triple  breasts.  But  the  Stone  resisted  them;  shuddered 
steady;  hung  balanced  on  the  edge  of  the  pit. 

"Wait,"  panted  the  Long'un.  "Wait  till  it  quivers!" 
So  they  waited,  backs  to  their  mounting  foes,  tiny  under  the 
vast  ovoid  of  the  Stone.  And  again,  as  Stone  shuddered  at 
edge  of  the  pit,  they  flung  themselves  on  it;  felt  it  moving — 
moving — moving;  felt  it  steady  once  more. 

And  yet  a  third  time  they  waited;  listening  for  the  guggle 
of  the  pit,  listening  to  the  nearing  cries  on  the  rock-slope 
behind. 

But  this  time,  as  they  waited,  breathless,  baffled,  pygmies 
against  the  Titan  Stone,  defenceless  against  Them  of  the 
Bow,  Nak  rose  mountainous  from  the  shadows  below  the 
Stone,  came  lumbering  in  search  of  them;  and  even  as  Nak 
came,  they  heard  the  guggling  in  the  pit,  felt  the  Stone 
quiver,  flung  themselves  forward. 

Nak  saw.  Nak  heard.  Nak  understood.  His  red  eyes 
glinted.  His  knees  bent.  His  huge  white  head  dropped.  He 
dropped  to  his  huge  white  knees  under  the  huge  Black  Egg. 
He  lifted  the  rim  of  his  huge  head  against  the  huge  rim  of  the 
Egg.  His  knees  quivered.  He  drove  his  head  upwards 
from  his  quivering  knees,  he  drove  with  his  head  against  the 
quivering  Egg;  he  drove  the  Egg,  quivering,  to  very  edge  of 
the  pit.  .  .  . 

"It  falls,"  gasped  Beamish,  "it  falls." 

They  felt  the  base  of  the  Stone  slide;  felt  their  breasts  over 
the  edge  of  the  pit;  sprang  backwards;  saw  the  dome  of  the 
Stone  drop  away  from  them  down  the  pit;  saw  blinding  sky; 
heard  a  grinding  of  rock  on  rock;  heard,  a  bow-shot  behind 


360  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

them,  the  mad  sollerets  of  stampeding  men;  heard  a  Hari- 
nesian  voice:  "Fly,  Bloo  Loy.  The  world  ends";  heard  the 
choked  sob  of  waters  dammed  in  fathomless  darkness  a 
league  below  their  fear-stricken  eyes. 

Fear-stricken!  for  now  the  waters  of  the  first  death,  the 
waters  of  under-earth,  pulsed  and  shuddered  a  league  below 
their  feet.  Now,  looking  down  clear  across  the  mouth  of  the 
pit,  they  saw  the  geysers  spurting  steam,  heard  the  hiss  of  the 
steam  that  is  under  the  earth,  saw  steam-spurts  of  the 
geyser-gushes  hiss  tree-high  against  a  sullen  sun.  .  .  . 

And  now,  between  the  tree-high  spurtings  of  the  geyser- 
gushes,  they  saw  the  sea  of  bracken  heave  to  the  pulse  and 
shudder  of  pent  waters,  saw  hill-high  earth-waves  heave 
craterous  out  of  the  bracken  sea,  heave  themselves  in  boiling 
slime  across  the  corpse-strewn  turf-belt  which  ringed  Flo- 
ralia.  .  .  . 

And  now,  fear-stricken  no  longer,  being  as  gods  knowing 
both  good  and  evil,  they  looked  their  last  upon  Floralia;  saw 
the  fires  of  the  ultimate  death,  the  fires  which  are  under-earth, 
spout  up  in  dragon's-teeth  of  enormous  crimson  from  the 
river  of  Floralia;  heard  the  roar  of  the  flame  that  is  under 
earth;  saw  it  kindle  scarlet  from  tree-blossom  to  tree-blos- 
som; saw  Rock  o*  Dreams  quiver  doom-red,  sink  down  to 
molten  doom  in  the  roaring  crimson  of  doomed  Floralia;  saw  a 
great  oak-trunk  of  scarlet  lava  shoot  up  out  of  the  heart  of 
burning  Floralia,  branch  to  shot  blackness  against  the  dusty 
skies. 


Blackness  against  their  sight !  In  their  ears  the  roaring  of 
many  waters!  Blackness  and  silences  under  the  sullen 
sun.  .  .  . 

Blackness  against  their  sight;  but,  loud  in  their  ears  across 
the  sullen  silences,  Nak,  symbol  of  force  and  justice,  trumpet- 
ing defiance  to  the  dusty  skies. 


THE  WRITER  TO  HIS  READERS 

being  by  way  of  an 
EPILOGUE 

Among  many  other  curious  rituals  carved  in  the  lost  writing 
of  the  Lo-los  round  the  bronze  gallery  below  which  our 
adventurers  feasted  with  Them  of  the  Bow  is  the  Ritual  of 
Story- telling,  which  begins : 

"Whosoever  prolongeth  his  tale  unduly,  let  him  be  stoned 
in  Market-place." 

This  advice,  ancient  though  it  be,  seems  so  good  to  me  that 
I  do  not  propose  to  prolong  this  adventure  of  "The  Seeds  of 
Enchantment"  for  more  than  the  few  pages  necessary  to  its 
conclusion.  If  it  has  been  one  tithe  as  real  to  you  in  the 
reading  as  to  me  in  the  writing,  your  eyes,  already  satiate 
with  strange  pictures,  will  hold  as  their  last  vision  three  tiny 
human  beings  spread-eagled  on  naked  rock,  and,  standing 
four-square  above  them  for  protection  against  raining  earth 
and  crashing  skies — even  as  his  mother  once  stood  four-square 
above  him  for  protection  against  the  screaming  bulls  and  the 
crashing  trees  of  that  forest  where  he  was  born — Nak  the 
Elephant. 

I  give  the  rest  in  the  words  of  Rene  de  Gys,  as  he  bellowed 
them  over  a  Rainbow  cocktail  at  the  Saigon  Club  to  Dicky's 
father,  that  Lord  Furlmere  who  married  Miss  Sylvia  Gates  of 
Danville,  Virginia,  U.  S.  A.  (For  the  cable  entrusted  to 
See-Sim  when  the  three  adventurers  "went  yellow"  did  not 
stick,  with  its  heavy  accompanying  bribe,  in  that  yellow 
worthy's  capacious  sleeves;  but  duly  arrived — somewhat 
mutilated  in  transmission — at  Castle  Furlmere,  and  set  half 
a  world  in  commotion  to  find  the  missing  heir.) 

"Milord,"  bellowed  the  Frenchman,  "I,  Rene  de  Gys, 
owe  you  ten  thousand  apologies  for  the  months  of  anxiety 
you  and  your  gracious  lady  have  spent  in  this  fever-stricken 

361 


362  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

land  of  Indo-China.  Yet,  by  the  seven  sales  Boches  I  slew  at 
Douamont  and  by  the  spirit  of  my  faithful  Phu-nan — may 
Ko-nan  rest  his  brown  soul — I  do  not  think  you  will  eventu- 
ally find  them  unprofitable.  For  there  is  a  great  market 
awaiting  the  Furlmere  merchandise  on  the  banks  of  the 
Mekong;  and  who  knows  but  that  one  day  the  cotton  of 
Virginia  may  not  penetrate  even  to  Harinesia. 

"Regarding  the  finish  of ':  our  adventuring,  little  re- 
mains to  be  told.  The  Harinesians  molested  us  no  more; 
and,  after  three  weeks'  journeying  along  the  ridges,  we  made 
Red  River  Delta.  There  our  saviour  knelt  for  the  last 
time.  For  his  hour — I,  who  know  elephants  as  others  know 
dogs  or  horses,  alone  realized  the  fact — was  upon  him. 
Strong  men  though  we  were,  Milord,  our  eyes  dimmed  with 
tears  and  we  wept  like  children  when  we  saw  that  loyal 
friend,  that  noble  animal,  lumber  away  to  his  lonely  death  in 
the  primeval  forest. 

"Aye,  we  all  three  cried — even  that  stout  warrior,  our 
Doctor  Beamish.  But  the  tropics  leave  one  little  time  for 
tears.  Savages,  fevers,  tigers,  fierce  rains  and  fierce  sunshine, 
fierce  snakes  and  fiercer  insects — all  these  had  to  be  fought 
ere  we  won  our  way  back  to  civilization.  I  tell  you,  Milord, 
not  for  all  the  reputation  as  a  savant  which  I  hope  to  win  by 
our  discoveries,  not  for  ten  gold  medals  of  your  Royal 
Geographical  Society,  would  I  again  endure  the  horrors  of 
that  journey. 

"However,  we  made  Hanoi  at  last;  and  there,  from  a 
friendly  official,  learned  not  only  of  your  Lordship's  presence 
in  Saigon,  but  of  that  nobility  which  prompted  you  to  re- 
purchase, from  an  unknown  Chinaman,  the  three  confessions 
we  were  forced  to  sign  in  the  house  of  Pu-yi  the  Yunnanese. 
Milord,  once  again  allow  me,  as  one  not  rich  in  the  goods  of 
this  world,  to  thank  you  for  that  nobility." 


Poor  de  Gys!  His  reputation  as  a  savant  is  still  to  make,  his 
gold  medal  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society  still  to  win. 
Though  he  yet  serves  his  country  in  that  land  which  Ptolemy 


THE  WRITER  TO  HIS  READERS  363 

dreamed  and  Marco  Polo  the  Venetian  made  real,  his  name 
is  not  inscribed  with  the  heroes  of  his  boyhood,  with  the 
names  of  de  Lagree  and  of  Colquhoun,  of  Henri  Mouhot, 
first  Frenchman  to  dare  the  Upper  Mekong,  and  of  the  in- 
domitable Garnier.  Poor  de  Gys !  he  has  no  influence  at  the 
Colonial  Office,  no  skill  with  the  pen  of  the  story-teller — and 
so  his  report  on  that  mysterious  thirteenth  canton  between 
Hua  Pahn  and  the  Ha  Tang  Hoc  lies  shelved  and  dusty — • 
dusty  as  the  muster-roll  of  Behaine's  adventurers — among  the 
archives  of  an  ungrateful  France. 

Nevertheless,  de  Gys  hopes  on — as  many  another  simple 
soldier — for  recognition.  He  writes  occasionally  to  the 
Long'un,  and  sometimes  the  Long'un  answers  him  in  Hari- 
nesian — which  is  a  very  simple  language  once  one  has  learned 
the  trick  of  it;  as  you  will  find,  if  you  take  first  syllables  from 
the  pronouncing  dictionary  of  a  certain  Mongolian  tribe  who 
penetrated  into  Eastern  Europe  some  centuries  ago  and  have 
been  posing  as  true  Europeans  ever  since.  (The  word 
"pittising"  is  an  exception,  being  derived  from  certain  women 
of  the  Bloo  Loy,  who  use  it  constantly  when  talking  to  young 
animals,  especially  kittens  and  lap-dogs — of  which  they  are 
very  fond.) 

But  the  Long'un,  though  he  still  believes  in  the  exercise  of 
benevolent  force  abroad,  cannot  spare  much  time  for  foreign 
correspondence;  he  is  too  busy — in  the  intervals  of  running 
"Furlmeres" — on  his  self-imposed  task  of  preserving  in- 
dividual liberty  at  home,  which  is  threatened  alike  by  the 
Mandarins  of  Bureaucracy,  the  Mandarinettes  of  Influence, 
and  those  Pu-yi's,  the  Extremists,  who  maintain  that  a 
Labour  Federation  is  a  Tong. 

As  for  Beamish !  Beamish,  too,  is  in  England,  working  at 
his  craft;  and  has  already  secured  quite  a  fair  practice  in 
Harley  Street. 

For  the  brain  of  Cyprian  Beamish,  M.D.,  Glasgow,  is  no 
longer  fuddled.  He  knows  now  that  average  English-speak- 
ing humanity  is  both  wiser  and  stronger  than  the  cranky 
minorities  who  seek  hurriedly  to  reform  or  impotently  to 
coerce  it.  He  has  given  up  the  cultivation  of  crocuses  in 


364  THE  SEEDS  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

art-green  pots;  eats  meat  with  the  majority  of  his  country- 
men; drinks  beer  at  his  lunch;  advises  all  "flower  folk,'* 
(as  he  calls  those  of  his  patients  who  have  no  occupation)  to 
find  a  job  of  work;  and  maintains — when  pressed  on  the  sub- 
jects— that  Communism  is  a  Muscovite  atrocity  and  Inter- 
national Socialism  a  pernicious  doctrine  of  Hun  origin, 
essentially  repulsive  to  the  self-reliant  genius  of  the  English- 
speaking  Peoples. 

Which  is  the  writer's  conclusion. 


THE  END 


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